


In the palace of ice and mirrors

by courgette96



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abuse of flashbacks, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Frostiron Secret Santa, Jotun Loki, M/M, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, On the Run, The Snow Queen AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courgette96/pseuds/courgette96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To repair what was lost, the Winter King stole something precious. </p><p>To find what was taken, Tony Stark goes searching for a god in order to find another one. </p><p>In the Palace of Ice and Mirrors, a boy with no memory tries to fill the hole in the World.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How it begins, three different ways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naturegirlrocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturegirlrocks/gifts).



> This is my entry for the Frostion secret santa, a gift for naturegirlsrock. The prompt was "Classic Fairy Tail AU", so this fic is based on Andersen's "The Snow Queen." It ended up being a way looser interpretation than I had originally intended, but hopefully the core story is still recognizable. 
> 
> There will be seven chapters to this fic, I have already written over half. I'll keep posting chapters regularly, and I will finish this story! 
> 
> So, with that said, here is chapter 1. Naturegirlsrock, hope you like it!

Once upon a time, a very long time ago. Or not at all, depending on how long your life and memory.

Once upon a time, there lived a King who ruled over a land of Ice and Snow. His subjects were Giants, born from the cold of their land, and it is a cold that seeps deep into black bones and blue blood.

The ice of Jotunheim never melts, and so her children thought her invincible. And so her children went to war.

And so the King, who lead the army with brutal strength and cold determination, who slaughtered hundreds of mortals - there were so few of them then - without a moment’s hesitation, the King who claimed the eye of the hero who came to stop him, that King gained the reputation he has now.

A fierce warrior.

A brutal monster.

And what of the seiðrmeister, who wielded Winter in his grasp and through ice made copies of himself, so lifelike and so vivid that they deceived any who looked upon them?

Forgotten, left in old tomes and dusty shelves. Left to wait and ponder on the solitary throne of a ruined palace.

“For all that has been lost, amends must be made,” said he one day, low voice echoing in the empty hall. It was daytime, after all, and the subjects still left to him were all asleep.

And after he spoke, he stood, and after he stood he vanished, into the cracks of the tree that shapes Nine Worlds.

The ice of Jotunheim never melts, it is a creeping cold that is home to her children and despair to all others.

Such despair is what we shall see next.

 

*

 

“He’s gone,” said Natasha one day, reporting directly to Director Fury. There is no one King of Midgard, but that man is one of the few that come close. There are those who would call themselves his superiors, members of a Council permanently in the shadows. But SHIELD spans far and wide, tentacles reaching all around the Earth, eyes everywhere, and who holds more power than the man at the center of it all?

“He’s gone,” Barton had grumbled, half elated and half disappointed. He had twirled an arrow in his hand, a very special arrow for a very special someone. Not the kind of “special someone” one loves, but the kind he thought about daily, dreamed about sometimes, watched from afar and who made his heart beat faster every time he came near, which was not love but something very similar indeed.

“He’s gone,” says Tony numbly. His living room is dark and empty.

The scotch in his glass tastes like water. The ice cubes click together, their chime is mocking him.

 _He is gone_ , they say, _and you sit here and drink. He is gone, and what good are you doing?_

“I am thinking,” Tony replies. “It is what I do, it is what I am good at.”

 _You think poorly,_ chastises the drink that is not water. _You will only think more poorly in the hours to come. Why not run instead?_

“Why do you not burn my throat,” Tony asks in lieu of an answer. “It is rude of you to ask question me at all, when you will not even warm me as you usually do.”

 _You think poorly_ , it says again. _It is all very obvious. I do not burn because he is gone, and the world is cold._

The world is a strange place: the most wonderful man to upon this Earth is gone, and no one cares.

“He probably snapped, like everyone thought he would,” Steve said, shaking his head in disappointment even as he is completely unsurprised. “Relapse happens even in the most willing to change, and he was far from that.”

“I do not believe that,” Tony replied.

“He must have left,” Bruce said instead, voice full of kindness yet not kind enough. “Watched every waking hour, suspicion on all sides. Hard to bear even for the most patient, and he was always more temperamental than he was willing to admit.”

“He didn’t leave,” Tony replied, “he’s gone.”

“Get over it, Stark!” Fury had ordered, one eye shining bright with authority - Tony does not like authority, never has, like beetroots and cold coffee and being handed things and people being gone. “Whatever that maniac has decided to do, it isn’t our problem anymore so long as he isn’t on our planet. The only reason you aren’t classified as compromised is because we need the Iron Man more than we want you in a cell. Don’t do anything stupid - fraternizing with that criminal was bad enough already.”

“Where is Thor?” Tony had asked, because that is the question, is it not?

Tony loves Loki best, like flying and creating and the smell of melted iron, all wrapped in hands that are always a little cold at the fingertips. All the better to bring them to his lips for, kiss them under the pretence of warming them up. (Not so much for the feet, though. Those are for brushing against exposed calves under bed covers, teasing Tricksters nuzzling the neck of grumbling Inventors).

Tony loves Loki best, but Thor has loved him longer. It is a love that had lasted through invasion and war, betrayal and rage on both sides. It is a love that had made him fight and defy all who would oppose him in his efforts to win Loki a chance at redemption. That made him stand by his brother despite all those that scorned such a bond, including that brother himself.

So when Loki is gone, when he has vanished of the face of the Earth, should Thor not be here, demanding answers and retribution? Should there not be a vengeful god at Tony’s side, to help him fight against their indifference?

But there is no storm on the horizon. It is a clear winter day.

Thor should be here. He isn’t.

Why?

“You’re taking too long,” Tony says to Thor, even though the living room is still dark and empty. He stands up, knocking his crystal glass on the floor. The drink pours out, the ice cubes spill onto the rug.

He doesn’t grab much: a warm coat, his wallet, a hat. It’s all he can take.

“Listen close, Stark: you do not leave New York, you do not get in a suit without permission, you toe the line,” Fury had threatened, Natasha and Barton standing behind him. “The moment you even hint at trying to go to that fucker, you’re done. Compromised at best, an enemy at worst, and the best you will be able to hope for is that we don’t bury you too deep when we come to take you in! If we don’t just shoot you out of the sky!”

Tony Stark is not an idiot. In fact, he is a genius.

He knows when to consider limitations.

He also knows when to send them to hell.

“JARVIS, hold the fort,” he orders as he steps out the tower. He probably won’t be back for a while. “I’m not letting anyone take my stuff.”

 _Finally_ , sigh the ice cubes as they slowly melt into the carpet.

 

*

 

_It would be a lie to say it had been unexpected._

_But it would also be a lie to say that it hadn’t completely knocked the wind out of Tony. Or Loki, if we are completely accurate._

_Both of them had been caught off guard at how inevitable it really was._

_From the very beginning: “Look, Rudolf, since you’re apparently here to stay, the least you can do is pay rent. With science. Follow me to the lab, I’m going to study your magic so hard it will start obeying the laws of physics!”_

_To some time later: “Captain, as much as I understand your outrage” he says very loudly to distract from Tony’s barely concealed giggles, “I can vouch for Stark’s alibi, and he can vouch for mine. So whoever say fit to tamper with your shield, it couldn’t_ possibly _be either of us!”_

_Until not a word is spoken._

_Late at night, when all the other inhabitants of the Tower have long gone to sleep, on the balcony, where Tony and Loki lay on the deck chairs drinking scotch in silence._

_Neither of them are drunk: Loki because it would take so much more to affect a god, Tony because he doesn’t want anything to keep him from appreciating Loki’s presence._

_Or Loki’s face._

_Alcohol ever so addles the vision. It would dull sharp features, muddle pale skin, blur the lines between black hair and black sky, and wouldn’t it be a crime to meld into the dark someone who shines so brightly?_

_Maybe he has indulged more than he thought ; he doesn’t usually think in bad poetry._

_But Loki is so beautiful at night time._

_Loki is always beautiful._

_That isn’t poetry, that is science. Generalization from careful observation in multiple settings, with varying parameters going from lighting to Loki’s outfit, culminating in the empirical but unquestionable conclusion that this god is the fairest of them all._

_Serendipity has it that he also makes this prince of Earth laugh. And that he is most skilled in defeating evil Captains who guard the access to the coffee machine._

_The wind blows, almost eerily loud, and Tony shivers despite it being a summer night. A few seconds later, he feels inexplicably warm again. Like being wrapped in a blanket and given hot chocolate. With marshmallows._

_He shoots a thankful look towards Loki, who doesn’t even look back, doesn’t acknowledge his own gesture or Tony’s beyond the smirk he bears._

_That’s another thing with Loki. Magic. Which is really only science under witness protection._

_Tony will crack it one day. Maybe Foster can help. Although out of the two of them, Tony has the better god. Thor is nice, but useless when it comes to explaining the magic he uses daily. The same way Clint doesn’t know how a vacuum cleaner works._

_Loki though… Loki is brilliant, absolutely brilliant. Not like Tony, but just as much in his own way. More instinctive in the use of his art, less so in the formal application, more lyrical and eloquent when it comes to explaining what he does, in a voice that Tony should record for safekeeping. Soft and laughing and just deep enough, it is the most marvelous weapon at Loki’s disposition._

_And Tony knows weapons._

_He must have gotten lost in thoughts at some point though, because somehow he finds himself perched on the side of Loki’s chair. His hand is clutching the god’s rist almost too tightly, his knuckles turning white and doing nothing to bother the man in front of him._

_But Tony’s hand is trembling, and the movement spreads itself in Loki’s wrist and up his fingers, into the glass the god is still holding. The alcohol shimmers, the ice cubes bump against the edges._

_The sound echoes into the open space, somehow._

_Tony doesn’t forcefully lower the god’s hand, because he isn’t strong enough to do that. Rather, he guides it downwards, Loki lets him, until it bumps against the armrest and Loki lets go of his glass._

_Fingers part open, only just. Neither of them move any further._

_Tony has no idea what he is doing._

_But that’s fine, because Loki seems to. His eyes widen, in understanding, in shock, in exhilaration._

_He lets out one laugh, full of humor and longing and almost like a gasp, almost like a sob._

_And then Loki’s lips are on his._

_Just like that._

_And Tony leans forward and loops his arms around his god’s neck._

_Just like that._

_The pull apart for breath, and Tony lays his head against Loki’s chest. A hand comes to cup the back of his neck, and there they stay._

_Just like that._

_When they wake up in the morning, the ice cubes have melted._

 


	2. Snowflakes and Sheets

When Loki stands in the field of snow, it is with the greatest of purposes. He is here to celebrate his lover.

Well, not quite. Soon though. There is a day to for such things on Midgard, one Loki intends to be prepared for.

“Anthony will be pleased,” he says out loud, thinking of the gift he intends to present. Something much better than chocolates, although those too are delightful.

Metal, which Anthony has caressed as tenderly as he has Loki, a different kind of fire in his eyes. No less passionate, and just as consuming.

Loki would almost be jealous.

But for his love’s happiness, he will gladly work with his rival, will go so far as to steal it from the heart of a dwarvish star.

In his hands lies Uru, the greatest of materials, of strength renowned and endurance unmatched, from which were born mighty harmers and unbreakable shields.

Loki intends to carve a snowflake on it.

It will make Anthony laugh.

Loki would do any folly to hear such a sound. He often has. Usually with Anthony beside him.

(Alas, poor Captain! But the Shield _had_ been repaired in the end.)

Cradling his gift in his hand, Loki lifts his head and breathes the winter air. Exhales slowly, and again, feeling the cold fill his lungs and set into his skin.

Uru is such a stubborn little thing, contrary at the best of times, and with his magic as limited as it is now Loki will have a hard time convincing it to bear the mark he wishes it to.

With the help of snowflakes, on the other hand….

He stays there a long time, watching those crystals of water drift down towards the ground. Eyes wide open, ever searching for the most perfect of them all.

What he finds, what he chooses, is a very little one, that fluttered right before his eyes before slowly falling on his cold hands. Like a carved quartz in the center, six branches blooming outwards ; one of them was slightly chipped on the side, a small imperfection, a discrete asymmetry that made it unique among the peerless.

He lifts his hand, white flake against white skin. It doesn’t melt.

“Will you not help me, little one?”

_That I will freely, snow Prince, although I wish you would abstain._

Loki shakes his head. It would not do for this one to be as stubborn as the metal. “It is no sad fate that I would grant unto you. To be carved and kept for eternity, rather than melt away within a moment.”

 _You lie, liege of mine, for your lover will melt your gift to practice his craft, and I will disappear within his forge,_ it chastises in return, although not unkindly. _But for the blood of he who holds my loyalty, I will gladly obey. But by the compassion I have for those yet frailer than me, I would advise you to run instead._

The godling frowns. The snowflake is so breakable even in his delicate grasp, and he is a God who has endured centuries. He is not frail, and never will be again. “I will not run, for the work I must do is yet unfinished.”

_It is a reckless youth that does not heed wise advice._

He scoffs. “What wisdom in snowflakes?" He shakes his head. "It matters not. You have agreed, and so I will continue.”

 _As my Prince commands,_ the snowflake sighs in disappointment, _but you will remember, when it is too late, that any wisdom is greater than that of a fool in love._

But Loki scoffs again, because he knows himself to be very clever. He knows Anthony is the most brilliant man on Midgard. What have they to fear?

(Loki is still very young at times.)

So he begins, laying the upsetting little flake on the Uru, lifting his gift till it rests over his heart. His hands glow green, the metal glows gold, and the white snowflake slowly dissolves into the smooth grey surface.

The carving formed shines a slight blue.

Loki smiles.

The air grows colder. The sky grows darker.

That’s because, he realizes belatedly, he is now standing in a large shadow.

The snowflakes grow larger and larger, the air grows thicker with white fog. Loki slowly turns around, eyes rising to meet blue flesh, scarred by birth and by battle. He doesn’t need to meet piercing red eyes to know who is before him.

He summons his dagger in one hand ; the other clenches around the cold Uru.

Laufey-King looks on, amused. “Will my death come at your hands again, son of Odin?”

Loki clenches his teeth. The mockery had stung when coming from Asgard ; it is nothing compared to coming from the King of monsters.

There is no discussing, no bargaining with the Frost Giants, especially one he so crudely betrayed, thought to have murdered, whose kingdom he intended to destroy. All he can do is strike, even with his seiðr shackled as it is.

He will give no warning. He will jump, lash out, throw his dagger, summon a new one. Run if necessary. The Winter King would be foolish to chase him in Midgard. Asgard would not look too kindly upon a Frost Giant loose in this Realm again. They didn’t for Loki, after all.

He crouches, slightly, movements as discrete as possible to hide his intent. Any second now, he will lunge.

Only he cannot.

His feet remain stuck to the ground. The snow like stone - no, no like a thousand hands, clenching around his legs, and every flake that falls upon the ground is a new set of arms dedicated to holding him still.

 _Alas, Snow Prince, it is too late to run now,_ they all lament, _for our King commands, and we obey._

Their grip on him tightens.

“Are you not cold, son of Odin?” Laufey asks, stepping closer.

Loki tugs at his legs, all the while knowing it is futile. Insults, taunting, all words stuck in his throat as his mind races for an exit.

He truly is a fool a times.

How will Anthony ever get his gift now?

The King crouches, his eyes narrow. He tilts his head slightly to the side, in an expression so familiar because it is one Loki knows he has worn more than once.

It is a bitter realization.

“Or perhaps you are something else entirely?” Laufey continues. A hand comes to rest behind his back, so large it covers well over half of it.

Loki realizes why when a finger comes to brush against his temple, and he cannot recoil.

And oh, the contact is cold, so cold! Like ice in his veins, seeping into his heart! But only for a moment, and as the freeze receded the air felt warm around him. He no longer felt the smooth chill in his hand.

“I cannot drop it,” he says out loud, foolishly. It is the first thing he thought off, as he looks down at the gift he had intended for Anthony. He focuses upon it so that he doesn’t see how blue his skin has become. But he knows, _he knows_ , and the awareness of it makes the bile rise to his throat.

The finger trails down slowly, gentle as a caress, and he forgets why the sight ever bothered him at all.

He forgets many things, the place where he stands and the name of this land. Where he has come from. Which way towards home.

Had there ever been a home before?

The boy with no name doesn’t remember.

The uncertainty makes him shake.

But the man in front of him looks unperturbed. He looks upon him in a way that is neither gentle nor tender, but that might have been, perhaps will be.

The boy is picked up without a word. The movement is smooth, but still he is shaken a little, and whatever it is he holds in his hands threatens to escape his grasp.

“I cannot drop it!” he cries out, as he clutches it close to his chest. He remembers that much, you see.

The man - so strong, so poised, he must be a king - does not acknowledge his protest. He shifts his grip, so that the boy now lies cradled within his arms.

The boy turns his head into the man’s chest. Their skins are quite similar, are they not?

“I shall not kiss you, not yet,” the King murmurs. “For such things a Father only grants to his son.” He keeps his voice poised, but his embrace tightens ever so slightly.

The nameless child looks up again, to sharp cheekbones and red eyes, and doesn’t look away even as he who carries him begins to walk. The King does not look strange to his eyes, for the boy knows nothing of what strangeness might be. He only knows of two people within the whole universe, and both of them have blue skin patterned with delicate scars.

The King’s pace accelerates, almost to a run. No words are said, and the silence compels the boy to fill it. He tells the King that the wind and snow whisper to him, that the world around him sings, that he knows words of power and how to speak them, brilliant workings and how to use them.

He knows many things, but it seems to him none of them matter. He falls quiet as they continue into the vast white, until they reach a crack within the air and the Winter King calmly steps into it.

He stays quiet even as darkness surrounds him, and they step onto the paths of a Tree among the stars.

 

*

 

Tony is very resourceful, even without his technology (and he still brought that special suitcase, just to be safe). It is amazing how many people forget that.

He also has very good friends.

It doesn’t take much, all things considered. One Pepper Potts who is willing to tamper with company schedule and records to make it appear as if Tony Stark was in close correspondence with a certain Doctor Strange. All the while using every corporate hurdle at her disposal to make sure SHIELD works very hard to get that piece of false information.

A wonderful AI called JARVIS which can fly an Iron Man suit with enough ease and agility that SHIELD is more than ready to believe that Tony Stark himself is the one flying towards the Himalayan mountains.

Happy Hogan, who is actually very skilled at his chauffeur gig and knows how to shake off any potential trails.

James Rhodes, who can fly a plane.

Simple as that.

Actually, no.

Because none of them love Loki. Not even close. None of them understand just how _wrong_ the world is now, and so despite all this help, Tony Stark feels alone.

Rhodey is only one cabin door away, but Tony cannot talk to him right now. His reasons for helping are the reason he isn’t in the cockpit next to his friend. “Look, Tony, I don’t care what happened to that terrorist. The only reason I’m doing this is because you’re just gonna do something even stupider without me.”

There is nothing stupid about this. Tony is a genius. Loki’s cleverness is literally the thing of legends. Nothing involving the two of them could possibly _be_ stupid.

Stupid is everyone else. Stupid is SHIELD, is Steve, is Bruce, is the raven who pitied him as he boarded the plane.

Not Pepper. Pepper helped because she loves Tony, because she saw how happy he was and how miserable he is now. She jokingly comments on how Tony attends more than half SI mandatory meetings now, and she isn’t going to let anything ruin that for her. It is kind, and loving, and so beautifully Potts. She and Loki should meet up more often, they will be fearsome together.

Look at that, Tony Stark using the word “fearsome”. Loki would be so proud.

He’ll have to tell him afterwards. When he comes back.

When Tony finds him.

Not immediately, of course. No, the moment afterwards will be for hugging and kissing and thank-god-I-found-you-sex, which will involve burying himself into Loki and never, ever letting go again.

But afterwards, the two of them will go on vacation. A cruise, that’ll be nice. Well, not for Tony, he hates that kind of shit. But for Loki, who love travelling and but also reveling in luxury, and reading and it will be nice, because maybe he’ll be tired after all this and cruises are supposed to be relaxing, aren’t they? Or is that the beach? Loki hates the beach, the sand gets caught in his hair and he is so _vain_.

A date then. A nice one, like in those ridiculous romantic comedies Loki pretends not to enjoy and Tony pretends not to enjoy watching with him. They’ll go out for dinner ; Japanese, Loki’s favorite. But for desert they’ll go out for ice cream, even in the winter because Loki’s cannot care less about season-appropriate food, and has begun a passionate romance with mint-chocolate chip.

And Loki will put is always cold hands around Tony’s neck, which always makes him jump at first, but never enough to push him away. And then Loki will lean in and...

Tony lets his head fall back.

One thing at a time. He hasn’t even glimpsed green eyes yet.

The ice cubes were right, he is terrible at thinking these days.

He closes his eyes. There are still a few hours left before they land. He should get some sleep.

What he dreams of is of little surprise. He welcomes the sight greedily.

 

*

 

_There is truly nothing better than lazy mornings in bed. Especially when Tony happens to wake up before Loki, an ever rare occurrence and the only time Tony gets to watch his god sleep._

_It is one of the most miserable cliches on the face of this Earth, but Tony could spend hours watching that chest rise and fall steadily, face smooth and peaceful in a way that it almost never is during Loki’s waking hours._

_His god, always plotting and thinking and mulling over dark memories. Like Tony, but the inventor’s turns towards such dark thoughts come out loudly, visibly, like a dark fog forming around him that almost anyone who approaches him can see._

_Loki, on the other hand, bears misery with an impassible mask and a steady voice, like turbulent currents under the calm surface of an ocean, only for it to come out in vicious sneers and cruel words, more cruel than anything Tony can come up with because Loki’s cruelties are always anchored in the truth._

_Some days, it is best to leave Loki to express his unhappiness, and grant him the forgiveness he always fears he will not receive. (The two of them are very similar at times)._

_Other days, Tony will distract his love from such thoughts, with dates and mischief and pointless babbling. Or he finds a way to keep him from thinking entirely. He will only allow him to feel his love and adoration, whispered with fingers and lips._

_Those times lead to a delighted yet thoroughly exhausted Trickster._

_Which, in turn, leads to Tony waking up before him._

_There are little things better in this world than watching his god sleep._

_One of them is waking him up with snuggles._

_“Loki,” he says softly, bending forward to kiss the exposed chest. “Loksters.” He moves upwards, laying another kiss just above his breast. Loki shifts slightly, a small moan escaping his throat._

_Tony smiles against his skin. “Blue Bird,” right over the elbow. He laughs as Loki’s hand half-heartedly tries to bat him away, doges a weak shove. His beard drags along a white collarbone until his lips reach the pale, beautiful neck that has captured much of his attention last night._

_The last kiss is pressed right above a mark left by his teeth, and that is when strong arms pull him upwards, so that he is facing green eyes still half-closed, wisps of black hair falling over them, cheeks with a faint pink hue._

_The sight is so beautiful he cannot help but smile. He breathes out, his breathe reaching out to caress the other’s face._

_“Anthony,” Loki whines, voice filled with sleep and mute laughter, “you tickle.”_

_Tony chuckles again. “Rise and shine, Aurora!” he proclaims, forcing himself forward to pepper that face with kisses. Of course, he only manages to get so far because Loki lets him. “You’ve slept enough, and that’s coming from me, so you know it’s true.”_

_“No, no it isn’t. You lie, Anthony, and as I am the god of lies you know I am right. We must sleep some more!” The god lets his head fall back with a groan, but his hands come to grip Tony’s waist tighter._

_Mixed messages that. Tony decides to push it. “Come on, I can’t be the less lazy of us two, the universe would implode!” he exclaims, bopping him on the nose. “You have to get up for the good of the universe, Snowflake!”_

_Loki raises his head, crinkling his nose. “You call me by that name because you believe I dislike it,” he chides. “A horrible thing to do,_ hjarta minn _”_

_“Okay, first of all, this is light teasing and you know it. Second of all, it doesn’t anymore? Cause that would be disappointing.”_

_Loki smirks in reply, reaching out to trail his fingers down Tony’s cheek. “Your Orhan Pamuk had much to say over the subject, in the prose he wields so well._ The endless repetition of an ordinary miracle,” _he says with no small amount of smugness. “Is that how you see me, Anthony?”_

_“Nothing ordinary about you babe,” Tony replies, propping himself up on his elbow. “Although we do need to do something about that quoting problem of yours.”_

_Introducing Loki to Earth litterature had been one of the greatest ideas of all time - and all JARVIS’, proof that Tony’s creations all always the best._

_It hard started with the Harry Potter series, which Loki had enjoyed despite the “appalling misconceptions surrounding the nature and use of magic”. Then it had been more serious novels, then theatre, and everything had been all fine and good until Loki had discovered poetry._

_Specifically, french emo poetry, from depressed poets who drank too much absinthe and wallowed at the ineptitude of those around them. For Loki, it had been love at first sight._

_Which had translated into him memorising entire verses and spouting them in random conversation. He even translated them so that everyone could fully enjoy the art._

_Not that Tony got most of it, although he did like the anal ulcer one._

_That had been in the beginning. Now everything written on a piece of paper was free game. And a few reality TV quotes that Loki had found particularly delightful._

_The inventor knows his god does it partially out of pleasure, and partially to tease him. And Tony will complain and whine, but not-so-secretly hope Loki never stops. Not when he enjoys himself so much._

_“It is not a problem on_ my _part, Anthony,” Loki replies, eyes crinkling in humor. “Knowledge and education can only be considered problematic when it is lacking.”_

“A quotation is a handy thing to have about, saving one the trouble of thinking for oneself." Tony shoots back. “ _That’s Alan Alexander Milne for you. See? I can quote too. I had this one prepared. Who’s uneducated now? Also, babe, I just quote-burned you!”_

 _Beneath his hands, he can feel Loki’s chest shake with silent laughter. The Trickster grins at him, a grand grin of the shit-eating kind._ “It is a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations,” _he licks his lips, “as the good Churchill would say.”_

 _Tony blinks. “Did you just…. Okay, that does it!” He pushes himself back up, hands planted on either side of Loki’s head. “You just out-metaed my meta, that is unacceptable and rude and I refuse to be burned by a_ Snowflake _! No more quoting for you!”_

_The next second is a blurry confusion of limbs and movements and sheets shifting, and next thing he knows he is flat on his back, Loki looming over him. It is an exact reversal of their position meer moments ago, one that Tony can totally get behind._

_“If you wish me silence, Anthony,” he purrs, face inching closer with every word, “then I suggest you give me a fair alternative.”_

_And then Loki bends down towards the inventor’s neck, and what he does with his lips, hands and tongue could never be considered_ fair _in a million years. But then again, Tony has never minded some dirty play._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I didn't actually say so in my first note: I'll update whenever I finish a new chapter, or at most a week after the last chapter. This is so I get it done as soon as possible. So "regularly" may have been a bit of a stretch.^^
> 
> Orhan Pamuk is a Turkish writer. Loki took the quote from one of his novels, appropriately called "Snow". 
> 
> A.A Milne is an English writer, the author of Winnie the Pooh.


	3. The old woman and pestering raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta, all mistakes are mine.

The room is a round, clear blue ice on the floor, thick white ice for walls. There is one door, thick and made of stone, that he is not to go through. There is one window, tall and narrow, from which he can see all that there is to see.

The room is his room, for the boy without a name. It is the only thing that is his in this palace of ice and mirrors.

The mirrors are made of ice, for blurred reflections that only let him see blue skin and red eyes. They are made of obsidian, for clear images that allow him to see every scar and ridge that decorates his face.

He is quite taken by these markings of his. There are elegant, their very nature as scars evoking brutality. Added to that his sharp teeth, and he looks quite fearsome indeed. And very much like the Winter King, who comes once a day, every day, through the door he is not allowed to go through.

The boy had asked him, once, what meaning behind the markings, and why theirs were so similar. Are all markings the same?

They are the mark of our people, and the proof of our blood, the King had replied. They are the mark of a true child of the Ice.

“Do you deserve to wear yours?” he had then asked.

The boy had replied that he didn’t know.

The King said that they shall see.

The boy decided he did not care for cryptic answers.

_(“Give me facts, Rock of Ages, I already get enough Shakespeare from Thunderbird!”)_

He frowns as those words come to his mind. They are not his, and fill him with confusion. He doesn’t know of any of those strange names, or why the mere echo of them make him smile. The sentiment is fleeting, soaring high and proud before disappearing to leave him in that same state of being in a round room.

He misses it.

He doesn’t know what “it” is, but it is warm, and soft, and like a piece of his heart has been carved out and improperly replaced with lead.

Alone with his thoughts, and he is filled with the sense of loss that seems ever present in this world.

The raven on the windowsill laughs. It is a very rude bird, to come unannounced, watch in silence and mock his unwilling host.

“Your presence irritates me, although I do not know why,” the boy says bluntly. He has no reason to know not to.

“Then chase me away, not-Prince,” the raven replies, “and pay the price for it.”

“What price could I pay, for dismissing an unwanted disruption in my day?”

“To bear your own ignorance. To never know why I wish to speak, or what I wish to say.”

“I doubt a bird has anything of interest to say,” the boy answers with a smirk.

“Foolish boy. From the hight of my flight I see further than you, on a vaster scale. My eyes are as sharp as my beak, and my memory is vast for it is the name I bear.” The raven cocks its head. “I am the servant of a King, the keeper of moments past, the first advisor and the greatest of informant.”

“And a bird.”

The raven ruffles his feathers at his irreverence. “Rude child. If the form is all that you can see, then I no longer wonder at the misery you so carefully fed within you!”

The boy frowns in confusion at its words, but it continues undeterred. “You sneer at my shape, but will you sneer at my liege? He rules over the strongest of Realms, in the land of gods, and protects the tree that shapes the universe.”

He scoffs “If he is so important, then what does he want with me?”

“Nothing. Everything. What he deserves, and what you would give. All in the name of justice, which is so ill-defined these days.”

The boy sighs, rolling his eyes. “I understand little of what you say. Perhaps your brain is too small for coherence?”

The bird ignores his insult. “My liege has chosen to be a King rather than to be kind. It is for the best, for he is renowned for the first, and terrible at the second.”

“You speak most ill of the man you call Lord, thereby courting punishment at his hand. Who is foolish now, buzzard?” This the boy assumes he speaks the truth. He only knows the Winter King, who would be most furious indeed should one disrespect him so. Surely one ruler cannot be so different from another?

“No more a fool than my King,” the bird shoots back. “Or than a boy who will not learn when he knows nothing.”

It is absolutely idiotic to be offended by the words of a small corvid ; sadly, that isn’t a good enough incentive not to be. “You don’t know what you speak of, you winged-rodent!” He stalks forward, until he is looming over it, his hands resting on the windowsill. “Cease now, lest I be tempted to snap your fragile neck.”

“My neck is large than most birds’,” it dawls, unimpressed, “and I know more than you do.”

The boy sneers. “I doubt that.”

“Do you? Then tell me, not-princeling, why are you here?”

The boy opens his mouth, unsure of what he is going to say. Then he closes it.

It is answer enough.

He knows of the Winter King’s embrace, holding him securely and blocking his escape. He knows his room, the round room with ice and mirrors and a piece of metal that lays forgotten in a corner.

But when he was first brought here, he had only been shown where he could sleep and where he could wash, before being left alone for the day. The next day he had been brought books filled with stories of blue giants and winter held in boxes. And the King started to visit, once a day, every day, but all he ever talked about was the content of the books.

The boy listened, despite the inexplicable dread that would fill him whenever that caged winter was mentioned. He waited, knowing that the King had a purpose for everything he does (or was that another?), and hoping the reason he had been brought here in the first place would be revealed.

It hasn’t been so far. He has been left to simmer in his confusion and growing restlessness, like a relic put away until it is of use.

The thought makes his breath hitch. He takes a step back without meaning to.

The silence has gone on for a while now. It rings of defeat, even if the raven does not comment upon it.

Birds, it seems, can be graceful in their victory. If they so chose.

“You told me you had a message,” the boy says through gritted teeth.

“Not a message, not at all,” the raven croaks in response. “For when the King sent my kin and myself to our tasks, he has bidden us to stay silent, to merely watch with black eyes as golden ones have proved too limited. But my brother, who is subtle in his defiance, has come to me to tell me of what he saw. And I, who am blunt in my disobedience, shall recount to you his tale, and two of my own.”

“Why?” the boy asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You put yourself at a risk, one I neither asked nor will repay you for.”

The bird brushes his wings with his beak, beedy eyes somehow looking contemptuous. It makes the boy’s heart stir in outrage. Surely his question had not been foolish!

But his feathered interlocutor answers nonetheless, and so he says nothing. “I am old, young blue, old as my King, although my feathers have not greyed as the hair of my liege. And there was a time when we were both younger, as were his wife and the children he called his own.”

“At such a time, one of his sons was old enough to walk, and had been off to a grand adventure in the vastness of his nursery. The other had been but a babe still, and resting in the arms of the man who was his father. And it was a happy day for the babe, who laughed as he reached out for the brown beard that fascinated him so. And it was a happy day for the child, who came back running to marvel over the brother who was still so new. And it was a happy day for the father, who bid the King’s raven to capture the moment, keep it within him as he does for all that is important. Guarded like a treasure, to be reminisced upon late at night when the King can become a father once again.”

The bird ruffles his feathers. “My brother and I are our Liege’s oldest servants, and we are his Thought and Memory. We heed better orders than the ones that come from his lips.”

“I understand little of what you say,” the boy replies, irritation seeping into his tone. “And you waste my time with tales that concern me not.”

“We ravens are not for foolish chatter, and our words are always worthy of speech. It is you always failed to see the obvious.” If the boy didn’t know any better, he would say the irritant was smirking. “Even empty as you are, you refuse to consider happiness as anything but another’s due. Ice in your heart, and it is of your own making.”

“Enough, buzzard,” he snaps. “Tell me your message, or leave! I care not.”

“Liar, again and always,” the bird comments idly. “But this one will speak, as you unkindly let him. Hear then, boy of no name, these two tales of mine.”

“My first tale is of a King who sits alone on his throne, for the wife who could stand beside him bears too much anger to bear his presence. He has unwillingly hurt what he holds most dear, and because of that lost what he holds most dear. Several times. It is justice, he tells himself, and then thinks of all that went wrong, and how it could have been saved. It is justice what he has allowed, and it is justice that he should suffer so.”

“My second tale is of a King who sits alone on his throne, for there is no one left to stand beside him. He has lost something precious, and because of that willfully harmed what he holds most dear. Once, but most profoundly. He has suffered so, he tells himself, all of them have, and then thinks of how justice will soon be served, one way or another. He hopes for one, but prepares for the second, even if he has cheated just a little...”

The raven stops then, looking expectantly at the boy, who stays silent as he mulls over its words. Eventually, a verdict is reached. “You are a poor storyteller ; your tales make little sense.”

The bird shrugs. “Most don’t, upon first listening ; life, and time, bring enlightenment.”

“I do hope your third one is more worthwhile.”

“Then hear it, as my brother has spoken it: there is a man, who has no throne to sit upon, has given up what palace he had in order to leave on a quest. He has been hurt, someone has hurt the one he holds most dear, and he will not stop until the world is fixed and what was lost is found again. That is the thought that drives him, that moves his legs and keeps his heart beating. That is the thought that my brother has carried within him, that and one other word.”

He has been holding his breath during this tale, the boy realizes. He releases a shaky exhale, one that feels like a prayer. “What was it?”

“It was a word that meant melted iron and the smell of old pages. Under a night sky. Silence.”

His eyes sting, his chest hurts, and bitter emotions rise to his throat, making him choke from the weight of it. It is horrible. “Don’t stop there,” he pleads. “You must tell me more.”

The bird shrugs. “It is all I have to say.”

“Then what good are you then!” the boy shouts, tension built during the tale released in one scream. Cold heat surges through him, coursing through his veins to shine green on his fingertips.

He glares at the raven, willing for it to burn in this world of ice.

It has the gall to look impressed. “Not all lost, then. But will it do you any good?”

The boy seethes, breath coming out ragged.

A plea forms on his lips.

“Get out,” he spits out, with the bitterest bile he has ever tasted in his short life.

Can birds look frightened? This one doesn’t. Beady eyes bear little expression other than smugness and contempt, and all their varying shades. “I will, without you needing to prompt me. You scream quite loudly, snowling, and perhaps the Winter King may come to investigate.” It ruffles its feathers, for the first time looking uneasy. “He will kill me, most certainly. And not to eat me. Raven flesh is no good raw.”

The boy sneers. “Whatever he would see fit to do to you, I have in mind to let him.”

“Foolish, angry prince!” The raven croaks. “You have always been so adept at destroying that which might save you.”

It flies away without awaiting a reply. A few flutter of wings later, and it is only a dark stain in the sky, blending into the darkness.

 

 * 

 

Waiting sucks. Especially when you are on a mission.

But it can’t be helped, really. After landing in Whereverville, UK, he needs to get to Even-More-Remote-Town, because apparently you can see the stars well from there. Which means waiting for the one bus that comes once in the afternoon, on the wooden bench that serves as a bus stop. All of this done under the dark grey sky of England in the Winter, which really doesn’t help his mood.

Also, it’s fucking freezing.

His hands are freezing, his butt stings, his nose is going to freeze off any second now.

Even with his coat over his grey hoodie, Tony is seconds away from turning Starksicle.

“Fuck this fucking weather,” he spits out, futilely tapping his hands together in order to keep his blood flowing in his fingertips.

“I am certain there are many other ways to deal with cold weather that does not involve public profanity.”

Tony raises his head to find a decisively unimpressed woman standing there, her entire body almost entirely covered by coats, scarves and gloves. The only thing sticking out is her grey hair, shoulder length with a slight curl, and her wrinkled face.

“Like dressing like the next ice-age is upon us?” Tony mumbles. He would speak more clearly in any other situation, but some remnants of his mother’s efforts in instilling some manners into him make it difficult for him to be overtly rude to old women.

Although just from the look of her rye smile, he is pretty sure this old woman could handle a lot more.

“Blame my grandchildren,” she comments, sitting down next to him. Not that he invited her to, but whatever. “I indulge them in many things, including their need to bundle me up. Perhaps they view it as retribution for being inflicted the same as children.”

He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t been in the mood for talking in a while.

Rhodey just dumped him here after landing, and took right back off. It hurts. It makes him angry.

He wants to be angry. It is better than the alternative.

“You do not seem the type to come to visit the countryside. Why are you here?”

“Do you often ask questions to complete strangers?” he asks, not too kindly.

“Quite often in the past. Now, when I am bored.” She huffs. “I refuse to spend my days in a nursery home, but both my children and grandchildren seem determined that I should not live on my own. Saddly, none of them have the good sense to live in a large city.”

Despite himself, Tony chuckles. A woman after his own heart! “You could always sneak away. Steal a bus pass.”

“A bus pass? Have you never hotwired a car before?” She smiles for half a second, before a huge fit of cough shakes her entire frame. When she finally catches her breath, she sighs. “Ah, but those days a far behind me.”

The stoicism of her demeanor never falters. However, the tone of her voice is so peaceful, yet so filled with unvoiced sadness it completely betrays any attempt at dissimulation. There are years in that voice ; something that speaks of old age and regret, a mourning long done with but never forgotten.

This woman had her heart broken, and broken well.

For the first time in a while, Tony’s heart aches for someone other than himself. Than Loki.

“I going to find a boy,” he says quietly. Almost like an apology, for bringing up bad memories.

She nods, a sympathetic smile on her face. “You must be quite in love, to be willing to come here of all places.”

Tony chuckles. “Yeah, I am,” he shakes his head ruefully. “We’re going to go on a date.”

His voice is much more melancholic than he had intended. He doesn’t care.

“Dancing?”

“Nah, dinner.”

“That sounds lovely,” the woman comments politely. Her expression turns a wistful, though still keeps that same hidden sadness. “You don’t need to know how to dance.”

Tony smirks kindly. “Never learned?”

“Oh, not me no! An English lady in the 40s’? Of course I was taught.” She shakes her head. “No, but I did have a date who admitted not knowing. I didn’t mind.”

“He must of been handsome then.”

She laughs. “Oh, he was! Handsome, and fit. But not at first. And that is not why it was him.” She looks up at the sky. “He was frail, when I first met him, but clever! Brave too. Oh, he endeared me, even if I did not show it!” Her eyes glaze over. “He’s gone though. I lost him.” She pauses then, looking almost puzzled. “I don’t think he ever came back….”

Tony averts his eyes, looking towards the ground. “I lost him too,” he murmurs, almost like a confession. He raises his voice, filling it with as much conviction as he can. “It’s only temporary, though.”

He has to believe that. He has to believe that there is a point in his future where Loki is with him again.

That he won’t be an old man sitting at a bus station, shoulders heavy with age and sorrow, talking to a younger person who has their own sorrow to look forward to.

Or maybe that’s how it goes? Every generation, every year, one person’s sadness heralding another’s. The karmic chain mail, the wheel that keeps on turning. That cycle that Loki believes in without admitting to it, where everything goes well until somebody’s world ends, and it all picks up again just until it’s the next person’s turn.

Everyone loses everything, everything gets taken away, and no one talks about it unless they are sitting at a bus stop underneath a grey winter sky.

“I’ll get him back,” he says out loud, because he refuses to believes it.

The old woman shakes her head. “I miss him. Every day. I thought the same as you. But he is gone. I had to accept that.”

“I won’t!” Tony snaps. “I don’t know what happened to you, but it doesn’t concern me.”

The woman doesn’t look at him. “I understand. I wanted to save him too. But it’s too late, and he wouldn’t want you to waste your life chasing him in the ice.” She looks at him, a stern look on your face. “You have loved ones waiting for you at home. Don’t abandon them. You’ll regret it.

He closes his eyes ; his next words are spoken slowly and deliberately. “The only thing I’ll regret is giving up on him.”

“No one has tried harder than you, but it has been years! You need to let him go.”

Tony looks at her. He isn’t sure they are talking about the same thing anymore. “What…”

“I know you loved him. I loved him too. But this won’t bring him back.” She sniffles, then swallows. Her eyes shine, her breath shakes. “We have to move on… all of us. As impossible as it may sound, we have to let him go.”

He turns his head sharply, glaring at the ground. He hasn’t accepted anyone tell him this before, he won’t accept it now.

He doesn’t care if it’s from a senile women, he _won’t._

“I’m so sorry…”

Do not see, do not listen.

What do the two of them have in common anyway?

His fists clench around the fabric of his pants.

“Grandma Margaret!”

He lifts his head to see a young woman fast approaching, her face breathing relief as she reaches the bench. “There you are! I thought I’d lost you.”

The only answer she gets is a slightly puzzled expression. She sighs. “Alright, let’s get you home.” She looks at Tony apologetically. “We’ll be out of your hair. Thanks for understanding.”

He smiles in acknowledgement as the old woman is slowly pulled to a stand. As her granddaughter tries pulling her away, she turns towards Tony one last time. “Goodbye, Howard.”

The two women leave, slow steps to accommodate an aging lady.

Tony stays silent as he watches them go.

The bus is arriving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I didn't manage to finish the next chapter before the week was up. I still have one full chapter completed, but you can probably expect next update to be in a week, just so that I try to get ahead again.
> 
> Loki's part may be pretty confusing. Part of it is intentional, since Loki is pretty damn confused himself, but maybe I went overboard in conveying that.^^
> 
> Hugin and Munin are Odin's raven in both Marvel Canon and Norse mythology. I learned that the name "Munin" most likely comes from "munr", which means desire. So Odin's ravens are probably more "Thought and Desire" than "Thought and Memory", which is the more common translation. In this fic, I'm going with Munin as "memory, for no other reason than I like it better.
> 
> Also, I didn't tag the old women Tony was talking to, because he never figures out who she is. In case it wasn't clear from the text, here is a hint: a small bit of dialogue was lifted from Agent Carter 1x08.


	4. Royalty, and general irreverance

“You are being very disagreeable today.”

“I care not,” the boy answers curtly. 

The Winter King’s lip twitches, but he cannot tell if it is in displeasure or amusement. The first intimidates him despite himself, the second makes him feel like an amusing pet.

All in all, he does not care for that twitch. 

“You are bold, to be so rude to your host,” the King comments, stepping away from the window and back to the center of the room. Again, the boy does not care for this situation: the closer the man comes, the less he can pretend the difference in size is not as overwhelming as it is. 

“A guest, am I? I would have thought prisoner would be a better fit.”

“Do you wish to leave?” the King asks, letting himself fall down as a chair of ice forms behind him. “I will not stop you. Where would you go?” The question is asked innocently enough, but again, the quirk of his lip lets his true thought shine.

He knows the answer.

So does the boy.

There is nowhere to go outside the Ice Palace. The world is the round room, briefly glanced at corridors and a white snowy field filled with mourning snowflakes. 

That, and wherever pestering ravens go. 

The boy blames the buzzard, in all honesty. Before its visit, before that horrible, aching third tale, he had been more or less content. Or at least, he didn’t know not to be. 

Now though, he feels like he was just waiting for something. And he is growing impatient.

“I grow restless,” he says instead, stepping away from the tall blue figure towards the pile of books on the floor. He picks one up, sighing in aggravation. “These books you bring are… limited.”

“Shall I bring you more?”

“Is that how I am to spend my existence? Wasting away and reading?”

“You may do as you like,” the King replies. “As your heart demands.”

But his heart is hardly of any help at all. It is of several different minds. 

It wants to run, to stay, to weep for loss and rage as well. To create, to burn everything down, to curl in a ball and die.

To live, somehow, but very specifically. 

And it all goes back to loss.

All of this must show on his face, for the King looks at him, eyes grave despite an uncharacteristic softness to his face. “I would have thought the freedom granted to you more pleasing.”

Is it freedom? Is it? The boy would like to know, truly. There are no chains here, no bars, just a door he isn’t to go through but could just as well. But why would he?

To find… it?... her?...him? That which has been carved out and improperly replaced. 

He wants, he craves desperately, but what he chases, he doesn’t know. 

Helplessness, it gnaws at him, spreading like rot, making him itch to do something, _anything._ It lights a fire in his veins, that spreads to the tip of his fingers in a green glow filled with possibles. 

If only he knew what to use it for.

What is missing? What is missing, what once filled this hole in the world?

The answer is simple, he realizes.

It is the most important thing in the universe.

“The world is wrong,” he says quietly, almost in a whimper.

The wind agrees with him. It carries the cry of the snow plains, a bitter, sad song that never ends. So sad, so mournful, because something has been taken that will never come back again. _Of órr Vetrhjarta, vér kǫllum órr bǫl._

He doesn’t understand the words. He understands everything.

What does the ice mourn so terribly?

Perhaps if he could placate it, this terrible feeling would go away. 

The palace of ice feels like a living thing at times ; perhaps the grief he feels come from it instead of his heart.

(That’s a lie. Not even a nice one.)

“The priests in our world have said much of the same. And any trueborn here can feel it.” The King leans back, looking at him appraisingly. “What do you feel?”

The boy swallows. “A cold burn.” He turns towards the window. Part of him hopes to spot a raven. “Like the ground stone of a building has been stolen, and I am standing on the unstable remains.”

The King says nothing, face completely unreadable as he stares into the boy’s eyes - his very soul, the boy would almost say. He isn’t sure the King likes what he sees.

“This world used to be glorious,” the Winter Liege says finally, gravely, “the brightest jewel in the crown of planets, one that shined true white and blue and not false gold. Its children were strong, were feared. The line of King and Queens were chosen and held by the Realm itself, a living being in its own right. And every now and then, from royal blood would come a child, powerful, but more fragile, more delicate. For many, a sign of prosperity to come, which in war would mean hope.” He laughs bitterly. “That particular belief is hard to hold onto these days.”

The boy glances outside. The ice is beautiful ; the city is ruins. “Indeed.”

“Destruction came twice. Through thefts and through rage from the skies. Hope stolen, twice. And of all those responsible, only one can be brought to justice.”

“Tell me,” he says, leaning forward, an intensity in his eyes that the boy had never seen before, “when faced with such destruction, when his Realm is weakened and hope so rare to find, does the King seek to punish the culprit, or does he focus on regaining lost hope? Justice, or Life?”

The boy swallows, uncomfortable. “Why not both?”

The King laughs bitterly. “Difficult, in these circumstances.”

“Then I can only feel sorry for you,” the boy answers, tone as haughty as he can manage. 

“Pity….” the King muses. “It is a surprisingly gentle sentiment, coming from you.”

“Call it scorn, if you prefer,” the boy huffs. He is not _gentle_ , never will be. “And what would you know of me?”

The question was rhetorical, but the King seems to take it to heart. Leaning back “You are small, but strong enough. You enjoy reading, knowledge, so much so that your mind would rebel and cannibalize itself should you be kept from mental stimulation.” His expression turns sour. “You have yet to manifest any ice at all. Potentials and Possibles flow under your skin, yet you do nothing with it. You do not destroy, you do not create.”

The last words stir something within him, a spark of a memory, sentiment ; nothing he can hold onto. “I can manifest ice?”

The King blinks, seeming genuinely surprised. “You did not know?”

The boy sniffs. “I know you can ; why should it extrapolate to me?”

The other’s face goes blank. Utterly blank, except for the faint traces of emotions within his eyes, something he cannot pinpoint. 

They stay like that for what seems like an eternity, but was probably only seconds, until the King slowly rises and makes his way towards him. He crouches down, and takes the boy’s right in his. 

He lifts them up until they are both in front of his face. The boy’s hand looks so small in the King’s, delicate where the other is hard and lined with scars. But they are the same blue hue, have the same long, thin fingers. The same lines trailing on the side of their palms.

He doesn’t dare say anything, not with the other so close next to him, so intent on whatever he is doing.

“Look,” the king says softly.

And the boy sees. Just a glimmer at first, then a flake, and slowly ice forms above their joined hands.

He gasps, instinctively tries to jerk his hand away, but the King holds in it a soft grip. So he leans forward again, watching the clear blue slowly take form.

The King’s magic, he realizes. He can feel it on the back of his hand , seeping through the skin to reach something that had been dormant within.

And it feels _wonderful_.

Like releasing a long flexed muscle, a cool caress along his skin that is comforting, familiar even. Crystals of ice bloom in his palm, rising up before dissolving into a glittery powder that wisps around his fingers.

Almost unbidden, his other hand reaches out to touch. Running his fingers through the icy mist, feeling a slight tickle.

Slowly, he reaches downward towards the shards. The tip is sharp. 

He traces his fingers down the edge. The ice is warm. 

Playfully, he strikes the tip on his claw against the crystals. They chime like bells. 

He can’t help it : he laughs, so full of wonder and elation. Oh, how had he never done this before?!

Behind him, the King exhales.

The hand around his tightens.

Then he is gone. Standing up so quickly the boy almost loses balance.

The King stands, looking unbearably tall once more.

“There is much to do ; I will stay no longer.”

With that he turns around and marches towards the door. The boy looks on, unsure. Part of him wants to 

The King pauses at the door. “If you were to fill this Void in the world, it would go a long way.”

The boy frowns. “Towards what?”

“Life.”

He watches him leave, black door closing heavily behind him.

The elation once felt has completely vanished now, leaving him torn between glaring at the door and trying to understand just what happened.

(And the grief, the _loss_ , again and always…)

The King was less confusing in the earlier days, his visits more formal.

He looks at his hand, where the ice once was.

No matter how much he tries, he cannot recreate it. He feels himself try, feels magic stir, but all he gets are a few clumsy morsels that fall onto the ground in a soft chime, slowly melting away.

The sound echoes in the room as the King’s words come back to him.

_You do not destroy, you do not create._

And suddenly he sees it.

A grin.

Red, gold, black. 

A laugh. 

White sheets, dark hair.

Lips on his.

Oh, the _bliss!_

And then it’s gone. 

Trying to hold onto it is like trying to catch the wind, but he tries, oh how he _tries!_

Any memory, any taste, smell, touch, phantom voices and everything in between, but it all slips away, ineluctably. He nearly weeps, because this is loss, again, and so quickly this time too.

The only thing keeping the tears at bay is one memory, one fragment of a picture.

Something blue. Something that glowed.

A heart. 

The wind whimpers, _Of órr Vetrhjarta, vér kǫllum órr bǫl._

He gasps, rushing towards the pile of books, searching for blue boxes and caged winter. 

He saw something, remembers, between his hands…

It glowed, blue and cold. 

When he finds the page he looks for, he almost trembles.

_Já, snaerbarn, mjǫk angan inn!_

Yes, this is it, this has to be it. 

He traces the picture on the page almost reverently.

He’ll fix this, he’ll fix the world and fill the Void.

With magic and winter and ice, he will _create._

 

*

 

It takes an astounding amount of effort to ring the doorbell only once. The only thing giving him restraint is that he knows someone is in there.Two someones, if he is correct.

He knows he is.

The door opens, and he doesn’t even let his would-be-host greet him before he blurts out: “I need to see Thor.”

Jane Foster looks at him, obviously startled. She then bites her lip. “I’m sorry, he isn’t here.”

Tony leans forward. “Yes, he is.”

She frowns. “I don’t know what you think you know, but…”

“Look, Astrogirl, the Avenger’s have been a thing long enough that I know to keep track of my teammates. One of them comes and goes using a fucking wormhole, which is pretty easy to spot when you know which energy readings to look for and have the means to do it. I have both.” He leans forward. “The Bifrost hasn’t been activated in the past ten days. Thor hasn’t been to New York in the past seven.”

“Well, he isn’t with me!”

“Sure, keep telling people that. Thunderbird has many fine qualities, creativity not being the greatest among them. There aren’t many places he would go on Earth.” He tries to hold onto his cold and tough act, but he hasn’t slept properly in days, hasn’t rested at all during his trip, and he is so, _so_ close… “Please,” he says, much more quietly, “I need to see him.”

Foster’s face softens, in sympathy or pity - he doesn’t really care. But she doesn’t move an inch. “I’m not letting you in.”

“Why not?” And look, anger is making its grand return, maybe because of all people he thought would stand in his way, he didn’t think it’s be her.

Jane Foster, whose Asgardian god had been gone for two years. You’d think she’d have a little more sympathy.

She opens her mouth to answer, but is cut off by a loud, low voice. “Because I had requested to be left alone.”

A large, familiar hand comes to set on her shoulder and Thor appears behind you. “Jane, I thank you for your assistance. But I shall deal with Tony Stark.”

“You sure?” she asks, glancing back at him.

“Yeah,” Tony snarks, “I’m not sure I like the idea of being “dealt with”. Sound like SHIELD-light. The vegan version of being “neutralized”.”

Thor ignores him - well, he gives him one deadpan stare, but as far as Thor-reactions go, that isn’t much - and turns towards Jane. “It will be well. I thank you.”

With one hesitant look, she leaves, though not before saying : “I’ll be in the living room, if you need me.”

When the two men are alone, Tony doesn’t waste any more time. “Where is he, Thor?”

He can see the blond steeling himself, his lips setting into one grim line. “You should not have come here, Stark.”

“Yeah, I’ve been hearing that a lot these past few days, but that’s not what I asked.”

Thor hesitates, eyes shifting to the side as he contemplates his options. 

As if Tony is going to settle for anything less than what he needs. 

“Loki has been taken from Midgard,” he finally admits, as if that wasn’t been obvious enough. “He is currently facing justice for his crimes.”

“Facing just…” Tony repeats, before exploding. “What the fuck do you mean, facing justice?! That’s why he was sent to Earth in the first place!”

Thor’s voice turns colder, like he is reciting something learned by heart. “There are other aspects that needed to be considered…”

“What, like that it was actually working out? Like him spending months on good behavior, with the occasional good deed? Did you not consider that?” Tony spits out.

“Not all parties were satisfied with the arrangement.” 

“Who complained? Earth didn’t!”

Thor expressions turns grim. “As a Prince of Asgard, I cannot say more.”

“Sure you can!” Tony replies with false cheer. “Because I’m Tony fucking Stark, and I get what I want. And what I want is Loki, and if you cared about him at all, you would tell me!”

The god’s eyes flash. “Take care of what you accuse me of. Loki was my brother long before he was your consort. I will not allow you to doubt my love for him.”

“Yeah, see I didn’t use to,” Tony sneers. “But then Loki disappeared from the face of the Earth, and I _expected_ to have at least one Thunder God on my side looking for him. Instead, I find him hanging out with his girlfriend, which is not the best of brotherly behaviors.”

“You dare…”

“I mean,” he continues, putting his hands to his chest in mock modesty, “ _I’m_ not an expert by any means. Lonely child and all that, but I would think that if one brother is taken against his will, the other would - I don’t know - do something? I don’t know, maybe it’s different in good’ol Ass-guard.”

“Not a word more,” Thor growls dangerously. “As prince, I cannot…”

But Tony isn’t stopping. Not now, not ever. “You know, when Loki gets into a mood, he goes on and on about how you’re not brothers, how you didn’t come through for him. I’d try telling him it was just is brooding talking, but maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe he’d been right all al…”

“Not a word more!” Thor roars. His hand shoots up, reaching for Tony’s throat. The billionaire can feel his feet leave the ground. 

Luckily for now, the god doesn’t squeeze.

Tony isn’t going to give him the chance. 

The suitcase he brought drops to the ground, and the mechanism kicks in. An upgraded one, much faster than it used to be during the whole Hammer debacle. In two seconds, his arms and legs are covered by the portable armour, and his chest follows shortly after.

Immediately afterwards he kicks the repulsors in his feet into gear - he is still considerate enough not to blast Thor with his hands, it would wreck Foster’s house.

It does the trick: the sudden motion takes Thor by surprise, making his grip loosen enough for Tony to shake him off. The god tumbles down, but they aren’t very high up, and Thunderbird has centuries of training to back him up, so he land smoothly enough. 

Tony lands as well, just in time to see Thor summon his hammer to his hand.

It looks like it’s going to be a fight, and for a moment, Tony is fucking glad. JARVIS is ringing in his ears, urging him to calm down, but he doesn’t care.

He wants Loki, _he wants Loki,_ and he cannot have him, the entire world is working against him, fucking SHIELD, fucking Jane, Fucking _Thor_ who should be helping _goddamit_ , and _where is his god!?_

He is going to find him, even if he has to punch his way through this.

(In the back of his brain, he knows it is not a good idea, but he is tired and hungry and so, so lonely right now.)

Thor lifts his head. Tony lifts his hand.

The plasma beam hums to life, blue life flashing dangerously.

The god’s eyes meet his.

And then, slowly, Thor puts his hammer down.

Tony’s arm stays upright.

“Peace, friend Stark,” he says quietly. “I should not have done that.”

Tony grits his teeth. His eyes sting ; he realizes he’s shacking. “Where is he, Thor?”

Thor stands, looking truly apologetic. “My friend, it truly grieves me to keep this from you,” he states, raising his hands in a silent plea for forgiveness, “but the All-Father has commanded my silence. I can say no more.”

“That’s not good enough!” Tony roars. “Tell me!”

Thor just looks at him saddly.

“Tell me!”

Why won’t Thor just _answer him?_

It isn’t, he can’t, he… he won’t stop now, not after all this. It can’t end like this!

He needs to blow something up.

The petunias get it.

It’s not nearly as satisfying as he had hoped.

“It’s not fair,” he grits out. He sounds petulant. He doesn’t care.

“He needed to face justice for his crimes.” Thor has never looked more resigned.

“We’ve gone over this already, he has been.”

“You refer to his attack upon Midgard,” the god states gravily. “But that is not the only deed he has need to atone for.”

Tony pauses. There is one other thing that comes to mind. One he thought was included in the fucking exile to Earth, but obviously wasn’t. 

“Are we talking about Jotunheim?” he asks carefully.

Thor’s face goes white. “You.. you know?”

“No, I just made up a name by stringing random syllables.” Tony rolls his eyes. “Did I guess right?” 

“Do not joke, not on this! Not about my brother!” I two strides he is nose to nose with Tony. His hands lie heavily on the billionaire's shoulders, like he is two second. “I have done all that I could to protect my brother from further judgement. How did you discover such knowledge?!”

Tony bats his hand away, stepping backward. “What do you mean, discover?” he cries out in exasperated confusion. “He fucking told me!” 

 

*

 

_Tony doesn’t think he ever saw Loki so fragile looking._

_Not that many could tell at first glance ; his features are as smooth as ever, green eyes placid, body relax. But that’s the dead giveaway: his entire demeanor is too neutral._

_Which means that his god is so on edge, so_ afraid _, that he is already preparing for rejection, and trying so hard not to let his pain show._

_And honestly? As much as it hurts to admit, Tony cannot blame him._

_He loves Loki, loves him like he never loved anyone before. Loves him so much it makes his heart ache, in a way no shrapnel has ever been capable of. It makes his heart soar, because he knows Loki loves him back, and just as much._

_But this…._

_This is a lot._

_He knew Loki had red on his ledger, even before New York. Thor has always been very vague about it, politely but firmly shutting down any questions on the subject._

_With good reason, as it turns out…._

_Attempted genocide. How do you put a spin on that one?_

_You don’t. Not even Loki tried. Or rather, he would try justifying himself, then condemn himself in the same breath. Wanting acceptance and punishment in the same breath._

_And at the root of it all, it’s about fucking Asgard, and Odin Fuck-Father and fucking racism and he knew, he_ knew _about the Jotun thing, knew Loki hated that part of himself, but he didn’t know it was like this._

_Tony Stark knows self-hate. Loki puts him to shame._

_“You are disgusted with me.”_

_“What? No!” Of course, his god would interpret his silence in the worst possible way. “I just…”_

_“It isn’t surprising,” he interrupts, because of course he does. He sniffs, and he is back to cloaking himself in self-righteousness. “You wouldn’t be the first. It was one of the many crimes held against me, did you know? Even if Thor had done the sames just days before me. Even if he had been willing to kill hundreds over an insult, against the will of his King, whereas I was_ regent, _Asgard was at_ war, _and…” He sneers. “But of course, when mighty, honorable Thor is the one who…._

_“Lokes?” he interrupts quietly, but effectively. Loki’s mouth slams shut mid-rant. He blushes ; that whole tangent really went against his intent to remain emotionless._

_Not that Tony cares about that right now._

_“I don’t think you want to talk about Thor,” he continues, ignoring his god’s mouth opening in protest. “Cause right now, what you’re selling is “Loki did bad shit, but Thor isn’t so great either”, and I’m not sure that’s what you want.”_

_The Trickster turns his head. “Indeed not.”_

_“What do you want?” Tony asks after a moment of silence. “Do you want to be forgiven? Cause really, it’s not my place and…”_

_“I do not wish for forgiveness,” Loki snaps. “The Jotnar are monsters, filthy beasts, and I have only done to them what Asgard was once keen to inflict upon Svartalfheim. It would have been no loss!”_

_“Please, Loki...”_

_“You do not know, Anthony, you never saw them,” he spits out. “Primitive, running around half undressed like crazed animals. Hideous, red eyes, blue skin, and the claws…” he shudders. His eyes shine, though of course he would not allow himself to cry. “Best to destroy them, so that none would have to suffer them again.”_

_And that, that is just too much._

_He cannot, truly_ cannot _bear hearing Loki talk about himself like that. He can already hardly bear the idea that the person he loves hates himself so much, and to hear it spoken aloud…_

 _He stumbles forward, trying to bring his god into his arm, but Loki steps back, Loki_ pushes him away _, and that just makes it all hurt even more._

_He didn’t know it was possible. (He wonders what Loki is feeling.)_

_It must show on his face, because Loki’s expression turns to guilt once more._

_“I am sorry, Anthony, I…”_

_“No, no… It’s okay…” If Loki doesn’t want to be touched, he won’t insist._

_But he does need to get to the bottom of this. “Why did you tell me?”_

_His god swallows, takes a breath to steady himself. “I… I thought about… leaving you in ignorance. It seemed… unfair, to you. You should know exactly what you choose to consort with.” Tony flinches at the word “what”, but Loki doesn’t notice. “As I said, I… do not feel guilt, although I recognize my actions were… unwise.” He winces at his own euphemism. “More than that, I knew my actions would make me repulsive in your eyes, and the thought of sullying you… I…”_

_“Hey, hey,” he whispers, raising his hand just slightly, very slowly not to spook him. “You don’t disgust me. You could never.”_

_Loki blinks, uncomprehending. “I don’t… Anthony, you are a defender of Midgard, a_ hero _to your people. How could I not?”_

 _“My judgement as the guideline to morals? You know, as far as moral compasses go, you_ really _could do better…” Tony jokes weakly, only to wince when he sees Loki turn his head. That wasn’t a good thing to say. “Hey, C’mere.”_

_Loki flinches, looks at him warily. Tony can see his legs trembling, straining from the effort to stay still._

_“Loki,” he says even softer. “C’mere. Please?”_

_That’s all it takes to break his god’s resolve. He takes a step towards him, then another one, then faster and faster until he stumbles and collapses into Tony’s waiting arms. The impact pushes the two of them on the bed, leaving Loki sitting onto his lap, feeling much smaller than he ever has before._

_“Is it not monstrous?” he half-asks, half-sobs. “That even now, though I no longer would be their executioner, I would still rejoice at their death?” He turns his head into Tony’s chest, holding onto him for dear life. “I can regret many things, but that… that I cannot.”_

_“It’s…” Tony starts, before stopping himself. What was he going to say, “it’s okay”?_

_Of course it isn’t fucking okay, and the two of them know it. Loki is shaking against his chest, holding onto him for dear life. His hands sprawled all over Tony’s back, fingers digging into Tony’s flesh like he wants to claw an anchor in him, like he’s afraid that at the first opportunity Tony is going to push him away and run._

_Oh, Loki._

_To think he wanted to pretend to be emotionless._

_“I’m here,” Tony whispers. He brings a hand to stroke the smooth hair, presses his lips to the crown of his head. “I’m here.”_

_Loki clings to him tighter. He doesn’t realize he doesn’t need to._

_Tony will always be here, right next to his god, like the world’s most technologically advanced cheerleader. He doesn’t know if Loki would ever want to be a hero. He knows he can be more than the Destroyer of New York._

_And more than anything, he refuses to let himself wallow in self-righteousness. Because if anyone hadn’t deserved a second chance, it was the Merchant of Death._

_It doesn’t matter how far removed he had been from the action, he had gleefully created more and more efficient ways to kill people, and had called it National Security. Had called it peace._

_When Loki first came into SHIELD custody, so many had cursed and spit at the idea. Because he’s killed to many people. Because it doesn’t matter if he’d ever want to redeem himself, he’s done too much damaged to make it count._

_All the while, Tony would wonder if somewhere out there there was a man, a woman, a child, who would clench their fists and burn with rage at the sight of him. The man responsible for the death of all they hold dear, lauded as a hero._

_He wonders if Yinsen had hidden all his dark, bitter thoughts as he encouraged him to make a difference._

_So no, Tony Stark did not deserve a second chance. But he got one anyway. Why shouldn’t Loki?_

_And more importantly: Tony loves Loki so much any justification is secondary._

_That’s all there is to it._

_He is that selfish._

_And Loki is his._

_They stay together like that for a long while. Until the sky darkens, until the silence has gone on for so long they stopped noticing. Until Loki finally breaks it._

_“If you permit such selfishness,” the god murmurs very softly, so scared he is of breaking the relative peace of this moment, “I would ask you not to rescind your affection for me.”_

_Tony hugs him even closer._

_“Never.”_

 

*

 

Thor looks at him in dumb shock. “....He told you?”

“That’s what I said,” Tony spits out. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

The blond all but runs forward, putting a heavy hand on Tony’s shoulder. “It means I can help you, Stark,” he answers, both apologetic and relieved. “And you, in turn, will help my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The portions in the language of Jotunheim are a result of an Old Norse dictionary and Old Norse verb conjugation program, so the odds of it being accurate are very low indeed. Still, he is the intended meaning:
> 
> "Of órr Vetrhjarta, vér kǫllum órr bǫl" - For our heart of winter, we cry out our grief.
> 
> "Já, snaerbarn, mjǫk angan inn!" - Yes, Snowchild, there is much joy within


	5. The brother, and his technically-not-treason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as it turns out, I completely forgot to post this yesterday! Which really makes my announcement that I may not post anything next Sunday even worse, doesn't it! Sorry!
> 
> Nevertheless, hope you like this chapter!
> 
> No beta, all mistakes are mine.

“What changed?” Tony asks, glaring at Thor.

Not too far from them, Jane still looks a little nervous. Not that Tony can blame her: a few minutes ago, Thor and Tony had been at each other’s throat. Now they are in the kitchen waiting for the Poptarts to finish toasting. 

And they are talking about Loki. 

The odds of this ending well are very low indeed. 

Of course, Tony acknowledges it, but that doesn’t mean he will make any effort to make things easier.

Right now, he doesn’t think Thor deserves it.

“What changed?” he asks again when the god doesn’t answer. “Because ten minutes ago you were ready to leave your brother to rot, and _now_ you’re willing to help.”

“He told you,” Thor answers, voice more quiet than Tony has ever heard from him.

The genius resists the urge to bang the table with his fist. He’s still in his suit, he’d break it. “Yeah, we’ve already established that! What the fuck does that change?!”

“It means that what I can reveal you will understand,” the god answers, voice steady. “I had not known that to be the case before.”

“What you _can_ reveal?”

Thor nods solemnly. “The All-Father took my oath, that I would not reveal anything pertaining to the fate of my brother.”

“And you gave it?” Tony stands up - kind of clunkily with his armor, but he doesn’t really care for effect right how. “What is wrong with you!?”

“I am a Prince, Man of Iron, and have a duty to my Realm.” Thor looks like he cannot even manage a bitter smile. “My brother had often delighted in warning me that I would soon come to curse that title as nothing more than a chain. He was right, in the end.”

Maybe he intended that as a defense, and maybe for anyone else it would have had at least manage to give them pause, but for Tony, it only makes him even angrier. So much so it makes his throat squeeze.

_A stolen relic. A political pawn._ Loki used to say all those things about himself, whenever he thought of his origins, about his sentence, or even because he had been sad that day and that wound is so deep and wide it almost always rears its ugly head.

And Tony had denied it, had tried to convince his god that he was wrong. Not because he had a clue of what he was talking about, but because he didn’t want it to be true, didn’t want Loki to believe that. He wanted him to believe that his family cared, because no matter how much he claimed indifference, he couldn’t fool Tony.

He wanted Loki to be loved by someone other than himself.

He thought he could at least count on Thor for that.

“So what,” he asks accusingly, disappointment heavy in his voice, “you decided he wasn’t worth the effort of bending the rules for this time?!”

It would be easier, in a way, if Thor were to get angry. Horrible, but easy. Alas, Thunderbird is determined to keep his cool this time.“Do you attempt to rile me by doubting my love for my brother, or do you truly believe it?”

“You were never around much, when Loki was here”

“You thought it was coldness on my part?”

Tony smiles, the same kind of smile he would give Senator Stern.“Let’s just say it didn’t look like your usual brand of sunshine.”

Thor opens his mouth to protest, only to close it abruptly. Tony knows better than to take this as victory - although would it even be one, if it meant Loki was right all along? Thor is merely mulling over his reply, going deep into thought if his expression is anything to go by.

When he speaks again, it is slowly and deliberately, despite the small smile that now graces his face. “When we were still children, Loki would spend many days in the palace stables. He would be gone for hours, and when asked, he would claim that he went to admire Sleipnir - my Father’s horse, the mightiest steed that ever lived. That was a lie, as I learned soon enough.” The smile turns sad. “There had been a colt, born much too soon. It was frail because of its birth, weak and skinny and with none of the endearing qualities one usually finds in the looks of young animals. Nevertheless, Loki was besotted by it.”

“He went to care for it, every day. Feed it, wash it, talk to it while combing its hair. I saw him once, the day I find out.” He closes his eyes for a moment before continuing. “I meant to tease him, called him a mare for treating the colt like a child. Loki reacted violently. He stormed away, leaving the poor colt confused and distraught. He never back.”A sigh. “The colt died a few weeks later.”

Tony waits a few seconds before realizing that’s the end of the story. What was the point of that?

Yes, he got the metaphor, he is a genius. Doesn’t mean it was relevant. “I’m not a horse, Thor.”

“I did not want to frighten him away! He is prideful, that you must know. He wishes to show strength, and in his dark mind he sometimes lets himself believe that visible happiness is a weakness to be exploited.” Thor leans forward, eyes wide and earnest. “I did not wish for my presence to destroy what happiness he had claimed for himself. I kept my distances. For his sake.”

“Well,” Tony says, smiling humorlessly, “you’re just a regular Edward Cullen aren’t you!”

“I… understand that reference. Darcy Lewis sought to educate me on Midgardian culture.” He winces. “The comparison is uncomfortable.”

“Well, tough.” Tony refuses to give him any sympathy. “Because if you were trying to get sympathy points, you failed. He didn’t have many people on his side. And somehow you think abandoning him was a good idea?”

“I did not abandon him!”

“You just said..”

“I came to him, one night. You did not see, but I was there!”

 

*

 

_He lands on the balcony at night, when his brother is alone. Loki is laying on one of the long chairs, eyes closed, expression peaceful._

_The balcony outside of Stark’s lodgings have been the ground for many moments between Thor and Loki._

_Their fight during the battle of New York, all hard punches and desperate pleading. The announcement of the All-Father’s decree, Loki’s shackles doing nothing to keep the defiance from rolling off him in waves._

_And now this, months later. Although it hasn’t even begun yet. Thor hopes Loki won’t send him away._

_More than that, he hopes his presence won’t drive him Loki to flee._

_“Although I understand it is a tremendously difficult task for you,” his brother says without opening his eyes, “I will ask you to be quiet. Stark is sleeping, finally, and I will not have you disturb him.”_

_Thor purses his lips. Although the unspoken confession to caring about his comfort is a good sign, he cannot help but worry at the fact that Loki called the Man of Iron “Stark.” “What are you doing out here at this time, brother?”_

_“It is as good a place as any to meditate, and much more peaceful at night than during the day.”A pause. “That is, until you showed up.”_

_Thor resists the urge to flinch. “Do you wish for me to leave?”_

_“Did I say that?” He finally opens his eyes. “What do you want?”_

_“Merely to talk.”_

_“Why?”_

_His brother’s voice had been uninviting before, but now it is plainly cold. His expression has turned completely blank, baring the trembling of his jaws and an emotion in his eyes he cannot decipher._

_Thor swallows. This is the sort of hostility he had feared._

_Perhaps it had been a mistake coming here after all?_

_But he did come, and now he is at a loathe to not even attempt to stay. So, with as much light-heartedness as he can manage, he speaks, hoping to somehow defuse the tension. “How are you?”_

_It works, but not as he intended: Loki snorts in response. It is not a kind sound, but he will gladly take mockery over defiance. “Is that it? You could have used one of those portable communications device the humans have. I know Darcy Lewis taught you how to use them.”_

_“I wished to see you.”_

_It was an earnest response. Spontaneous even. Thor has long grown out of the habit of trying to deceive his brother, so much so that he can never lie to him._

_Not that Loki believes that._

_Still, he must at least believe Thor here, for after a long moment of scrutiny, he nods. Formally, too formally for family, but it is acquiescence none the less. “Then sit,” he says - orders - gesturing towards the empty deck chair._

_Thor takes a seat, almost wearily. Despite knowing how foolish he looks, he cannot help but sit at the very edge, as if taking the least amount of space will somehow sweeten Loki’s mood. “I will not stay long, you needn’t worry,” he jokes weakly._

_Loki doesn’t answer.His expression is still garded._

_“So, my brother, is the Man of Iron treating you well?”_

_“Sometimes I believe you only call him Man of Iron because the true title sounds quite foolish.” Loki comments iddly. “And to answer your question, Anthony does not “treat me”, well or poorly. My life is not tied to his.”_

_“You live in the same quarters,” Thor points out. He prays he is not pushing too hard. “I would have thought it reason enough for you to interact.”_

_“Oh yes, quite in depth, actually.” It takes a moment for Thor to see the innuendo, but when he does he cannot help the look of discomfort that appears on his face - as Loki knew he wouldn’t. “Oh, really now Thor? Did you not think I would get around to such things in over nine centuries of existence?”_

_“It is one thing to be aware, it is one thing for it to be said out loud.”_

_“You are ridiculous.”_

_Thor laughs self-deprecatingly. “And you are my brother. I cannot help it.”_

_Loki freezes. “Am I ?”_

_It breaks Thor’s heart that Loki would doubt it still, even after all his assurances._

_There had been a time when he had been almost angered by the rejection, as if it were an insult to him. As if Loki’s denial of their brotherhood was a wrong willfully done, and only to hurt him._

_He still has much to learn, he knows that now._

_Thor is a simple man. Not dumb, but of uncomplicated emotions. Loki is not._

_And over time, Thor is coming to realize just how willing Loki is to reject and hurt himself just so others will not hurt him first._

_“Yes, you are,” he says quietly, but with a fervor that hadn’t been in his louder proclamations. “I… You have made me understand that these matters may not be simple to you, and I do not mean to imply that it is not justified. But to me… You could never be anything but my brother, my dearest, most loved Loki.”_

_His brother looks at him, still tenuously holding on to his cold mask. But his is shaking, and his eyes are bright and raw. “Still loved?” he scoffs out, but it sounds more like a choke. “After everything? You are an oaf.”_

_Throughout all their youth, Loki has used oaf almost as an endearment. To hear it again warms Thor’s heart. “If so, then I am happy to be one.” He smiles. “If it means you will still let me call you as I so wish to.”_

_“I have been reading some tales from Midgard… Many actually.”_

_Thor says nothing ; his brother is in an honest move, he does not wish to ruin that._

_“I remember one… Two brothers, very close, both with promising futures and… Happiness abounded in their family, until the eldest begins suspecting that his brother is not of his father’s blood. And rage and jealousy destroy everything.” He laughs bitterly. “Of course, the eldest in the one at fault and exiled, while the bastard child is lauded. I suppose the parallels are not striking as I had thought. All different, really. Which is just as well.”_

_“What are you saying, Loki?”_

_“I am saying… there have been worse brothers than you. You oaf.”_

_“Oaf again? You are getting redundant.”_

_Loki huffs. “I am getting tired. Stark has kept me up most of last night.”_

_Thor makes a move to stand. “Shall I leave?”_

_“A trip across the ocean for five minutes on a balcony. Our mother would have my head if I allowed it to come to that.” He rolls his eyes. “Go get something from Stark’s ever plentiful liquor storage. But be quiet!”_

_“We haven’t drunk together in a long time,” Thor comments, making his way towards the inside of the apartment with much relief. “I look forward to it.”_

_“I’m not drinking. I came here to meditate, I see no reason to let your arrival stop me.” Their mother would have his head for that as well, but Thor doesn’t point it out. It was a flimsy excuse anyway. “It is just to give you something to do. Something silent, I will not have you singing whatever bawdy tune you manage to remember.”_

_He doesn’t sing, barely talks at all in fact. Part of him is amazed that his brother allowed him to stay after such a display of vulnerability. That same part knows that it cannot last. But for now, he just wishes to enjoy this time._

_Loki closes his eyes, and replaces his fingers under his chin. Thor watches him, smiling tenderly. It is good._

_It is good, but he will not take any more chances. He will give his brother space, as the Midgardians say._

_He can wait._

 

*

 

Tony blinks. “That’s it?”

Thor looks at him, genuinely startled. “I… yes.”

“So, you had one hour that went well with him, and decided to stop there?”

The god opens his mouth, but no sounds comes out. Obviously, he hadn’t thought about it that way - if he had thought at all.

Whatever the case, Tony doesn’t need to hear what he has to say. “That’s not enough.”

“Stark…”

“No! It isn’t enough! You can’t…. You have to try harder!” Tony doesn’t know if he sounds angry, or hysterical. He doesn’t care. “With Loki, you always have to try harder! He… He won’t accept it otherwise, won’t believe! You should know better!” He barks out a laugh, weak and bitter. “I think you do, actually. I think you do, but it’s too hard. Because Loki challenges, Loki pushes back, and you all decided it wasn’t worth the fucking effort!”

“Again, you doubt…”

“I’m not doubting that you love him! I said that before, but that was because I was angry and I’m an asshole.” He turns around, so drained by his feelings he doesn’t have the energy to glare. “ What I am doubting is your willingness to act on your love when it isn’t convenient for you anymore!”

“That is a lie!”

“You think I’m making this up? That’s what he told me!”

“I have changed!”

“Not enough!”

Tony doesn’t shout very often, when you think about it. It’s mostly snarky comments and dismissive statements. So maybe it’s the sound of his screaming voice that makes the god shut up. Out of shock and all.

But shock doesn’t explain Thor going very still. His face goes blank, just like Loki’s does some time. Except it doesn’t last nearly as long, as soon he looks so tired, so _sad,_ and he sinks back into his chair looking utterly defeated.

Tony almost feels bad.

The god stares at nothing for a while, mulling over whatever sad thought caught hold of him this time. The human stays standing, and watches. 

“I love my brother.”

That statement is followed by another silence. Thor obviously isn’t finished, and Tony doesn’t have the heart to challenge him once more. It might just break him.

He doesn’t think Loki would want that. Not really.

“He has been cruel to me, willfully so. Has on many occasions acted solely in the purpose of hurting me.” Thor breathes out. “I knew that, and forgave him for it. I did it because it was the truth in my heart, but I also knew it to be noble of me.”

“And in all this time, I never thought to think that some cruelties could also be involuntary.” He looks up to him, eyes sad. “I had thought myself improved. I suppose you are right though Stark - not enough.”

“Whatever accusations you have against me, do not believe for a moment that I would willfully turn away from my brother.” 

The inventor purses his lips. “But you took that oath.”

“I am a Prince of my Realm, and I have a duty to my people that matches, if not surpases the one I have to my brother - though it pains me to say it. I cannot help my brother without destroying a fragile peace. I cannot defy my King, because the Royal Family needs to appear strong. I cannot break my vow, because if my word is meaningless than I can no longer ask for their trust!”

“I took an oath not to reveal Loki’s fate, or any matters pertaining to the Realm you have knowledge of.” Thor takes a breath, and when starts again his tone is much more heavy as he insists on every word. “But you already know much about the later, and so I can say…. Loki’s fate did not come by the hands of Asgard.”

“So, Jotunheim? The new King wants justice, kidnaps a Prince of Asgard. Your Father is okay with that?”

“I cannot confirm or deny anything.” He pauses, and suddenly his entire demeanor shifts. His posture relaxes, his voice grows louder. “Have I ever told you about Heimdall?”

“Um..yeah?” Tony has a fair idea where this is going. He still wants Thor to say it though.

He wants it explicitly stated that something is going to help him out, for a change.

“Then you know he holds the key to go anywhere in the Nine Realms. And as Prince, I do have the authority to order him into action.”

“So long as Daddy-kins doesn’t forbid it.”

“The All-Father has given no order not to use the Bifrost.”

Tony opens his mouth, closes it, then raises his eyebrows. Strange feeling for a shitty day: he is somehow both unimpressed and proud“You know, I didn’t think obeying the letter rather than the spirit was your thing.”

“It didn’t use to be. But it seems to be a growing trend in Asgard.” His expression turns bitter. “No one seems to mind, so long as it’s not Loki.”

Tony grunts in acknowledgement. 

_“Tony Stark! This is a message from SHIELD! Step outside of the residence, without your armor, hands above your head!”_

He grunts again, this time in frustration and anger. He had actually forgotten about them. “Shit. How did they get here so fast?”

“You wish to avoid them?” Thor asks. “I could tell them to leave.”

“No, don’t!” he answers quickly. “Well, not yet. Just tell me how many are outside.”

“What did you do to antagonize them so?”

The laugh coming from Tony is both mocking and hateful. “I went looking for Loki.”

Thor’s face, before slightly exasperated, turns much more somber. “I see,” he rumbles. He breathes out heavily. “It seems I owe you more than I could ever have realized.”

Tony just waves him towards the window.

The god actually has to lean forward to look through the glass, peering through lace curtains. It’s kind of ridiculous looking. Tony is in no mood to laugh.

“There are five heavy vehicles,” the report starts. “Around twenty agents visible, although I do not doubt that there are more hiding.”

“Anyone we recognize? Natasha?”

“Nay, the widow is nowhere to be seen. I do recognize Agent Hill in the back.” Thor frowns. “And… yes. James Rhodes is there as well. Do you know why?”

Tony’s breath hitches. He lets himself sag on the chair, covers his face with his hands. The cold of the armour feels grounding.

Rhodey. 

No, Tony doesn’t know why.

Actually, he does.

Rhodey had never once been afraid of stopping Tony when he thought he was in the wrong. Tony had always been grateful.

Except this time Tony isn’t wrong. 

He just loves Loki, which is really the rightest thing in the world.

“It’s nothing,” he lies. He gets up. “I just can’t let them get me.”

Thor nods. “Then let me help you.” It is an order, not a request.

Let me help Loki. 

Of course Tony will agree. 

“I will go speak to them, friend. I doubt I will be able to distract them long enough, but it should be enough. If it isn’t...”

“What, you’re going to fight SHIELD?” Tony asks, the challenge clear in his voice.

“Loki would have my head if I started with brute force. I am ready to finish with it though.” Thor’s answer is simple and earnest, effectively cutting off any of Tony’s bile. “Go.”

“Where?”

“There is a garden behind, surrounded by other houses. They have not had the time to circle the house, so you will have at least tens of seconds before they come to reach you.”

Tony blinks, before mentally berating himself. Sure, Thor is more of a melee kind of guy, but he is a prince from a warrior culture. He has to have had at least some notion of strategy. “Okay, I step outside, and then what? They probably have shooters out there, they’ll try to gun me down if I try to fly away.”

“Try to stay a safe distance from the flowers. Jane would not wish them burnt.”

With that, he turns towards the door. He puts his hand on the doorknob, pauses ; his head tilts up to the sky. “Heimdall!” Thor speaks loudly. “You have called me your Prince, I have called you my friend. I know you have no love for my brother…” He stops for a moment. “Please help me.”

Then he walks out the door, carefully closing it behind him. Muffle voices come through, but Tony isn’t paying attention. He is already making his way towards the back door. 

“Mr Stark?”

He turns to see Jane Foster looking at him from doorway leaving to the living room. She bites her lips for a moment, before straightening her spine. “I hope you bring him back…”

Despite everything, he cocks an eyebrow at her.

She blushes, but doesn’t back down. “Good luck.” And wonders of wonders, she sounds completely sincere.

He stares at her, then nods. No more words are said.

Stepping outside, he feels apprehension mounting. He can hear Thor’s voice growing louder and louder ; he is channeling the Mighty Prince of Asgard for all he is worth. It’s good, very good. It won’t help him very long.

Out of precaution, he pulls his faceplate back up. 

A second later, an arrow comes flying towards him. Tony dodges, barely, dropping to the ground instead of flying upwards because he didn’t even have the time to activate his repulsors.

The archer is good ; not surprising, there is really only one of those in SHIELD.

As it happens, said archer doesn’t really want Loki back.

And, Tony realizes a split second too late, he has had access to a particular piece of technology created by a super genius.

The electro-magnetic pulse that hits him a second later is confirmation he doesn’t need.

The Avengers fight a lot of different bad guys. Some come from space and have fucking magic ; others are mutated things, usually slimy and green ; other still use technology. And who better to take care of those than Tony Stark?

Electromagnetic pulses discharged by arrows, shutting down 99.99% of all technology-based weapons. Doesn’t even need to hit, just be in a fifteen meter radius. When your archer is named Hawkeye, that’s easy enough.

The betrayal that keeps on giving, Tony thinks bitterly. 

Of course, his own suit is made to resist those kinds of attacks, but this is Stark technology working against him. The blast does manage to do some damage. 

And of course, said damage is on his repulsors. 

The Iron Man is stranded. Shit. 

The suit is not well designed for prolonged close combat. It’s why he’s in the air so often. 

He hears a rustling near him. Clint must have gotten down from whatever perch he had hidden away on, is probably going to appear any moment now with his bow taunt, commanding him to stand down like a proper SHIELD agent.

Behind him, he can hear Thor’s voice growing louder and louder. Which means the god is losing ground.

“How do we proceed, sir?” JARVIS asks. Good friend. Much better than Rhodey right now.

Tony’s eyes narrow. “It isn’t over till….”

He had a witty, badass retort, really. It’s only that he doesn’t get the chance to say it.

Because the sky just went full disco on him. His energy reading pick up, go so off the chart they are probably on a totally different one now.

The air around him fills with colors, the scenery around grows blurry, and he has just enough time to see Clint through the mess, hear him swear, before he is taken in by a cosmic vacuum cleaner. 

Well, that is what it feels like at first. Then it’s like something is stretching him, slowly then more insistently, and oh Tesla, is this the Spaghetti effect? Is he going to die a noodly death??

The light disappears, leaving him in complete darkness, and yep, he is falling headfirst into a blackhole.

JARVIS just went blue screen of death on him.

That’s just a rude thing to see before you die. 

And then there is ground under his feet, and he stumbles forward. 

When he looks up, the first thing he thinks is that his visual interface must have been friend somehow. Because there is no way there can be…

Oh. The _Golden_ Realm.

These guys take that seriously don’t they?

Next to him is a tall dude, dark skinned and a gold armor - of course he wears a gold armor, it brings out the colour in his eyes.

“The King of Asgard will see you,” tall, dark and tacky rumbles - Heimdal, Tony realizes.

Loki didn’t care for Heimdal. Therefore, Tony decides a second later, he doesn’t either. 

But the guy did help him out, so at least this time he won’t be rude.

“Thanks,” he grumbles. He looks at the long rainbow colored bridge before him, leading into a city that is dominated by a horribly gaudy building that can only be the palace.

He checks his repulsors. Still broken, of course. 

He’s going to have to walk the distance, won’t he?

Better get started, then.

He takes a step, then another, and to the sound of his armor hitting the ground, Tony makes his way towards the palace, and more importantly, towards Loki.

 

*

 

Green sparks. Cold wind. Blue lights.

A lightly calloused hand slipping into his.

Fizzle out. It’s gone.

Again. 

Green sparks. Cold wind. Ice shards. 

_“Hey there, Rudolph! Want to have that drink now?”_

The magic breaks and it slips away.

He bites his lips, opens his eyes. Looks at it in his hands.

Small. Round. Glowing.

But the blue is wrong. It is too dark, too deep, when it should be bright, so bright it is almost white, and not so cold, and it should be _home…._

_But_ _it_ _is_ _home_ , his blood protests. _Wind blower, Ice creator. The Realm made seiðr. Vetrhjarta._

No, no it isn’t, he thinks desperately. This blue too cold, too big. It makes his skin crawl, like the entire world will he taken away from him. Unwanted, stolen.

In the plainest, most shameful of terms: it frightens him.

So much so he throws the blue stone away from him, and turns toward the window to avoid looking at it.

_It is wrong, it is travesty,_ the wind moans and cajoles. _Seiðrhǫlðr, child of Ymir. The ice is your bones, the cold your blood. Vetrhjarta your gift. Your birthright._

He flinches at that last word. He looks away.

Then stops breathing.

The blue glow has started to dim.

No, no, no!

He rushes forward, picks up his creation, but it is no use. The light keeps fading away, the ethereal blue swirls dying out until all he has left in his hands is metal with a snowflake carved onto it.

He howls.

“Damn it!” He screams, throwing the now winterless stone on the floor. “Damn it! Damn it!” He heaves, he stomps. His hair falls in front of his face, making a thin dark curtain in front of him as he looks up and sees himself in the mirror.

Red eyes, and still somehow they look bloodshot.

He had thought it would be easy. From the books the Winter King had brought, from the whisper of the wind and the cry in his blood, the answer had seemed so obvious.

_Vetrhjarta._ The Heart of Winter. 

What has been taken from this world.

What has been _lost._

And he had been so sure this was the right way ; even now, it feels so hard to believe it couldn’t be.

It all feels so _right._

The magic he wields is all encompassing. It surges through his bones, through his flesh, all the way into his mind. 

He can see it then, green and powerful and hints of blue, dancing and soaring. Blissful.

Until it hits a wall. And he flinches. (Because that part feels wrong, wrong, _wrong!_ )

And then it goes back through his hands, into the small stone, as he tries to create something small, something blue, something missing from the world ; something that has been taken, leaving him to slowly bleed away.

But the glow fades, the shining gem because dull metal once more. The carved snowflake is always the last to dim: the boy puts all his efforts in making sure it stays as long as possible.

(He likes that snowflake, much more than the ones that fall outside.)

The glow fades, and the wind cries in disappointment, and the ice is mournful

The blue glow last longer. The wall in his mind, repeatedly hit, starts to break.

And beyond the cracks, he can see. He can hear.

Something soft and golden brown, deep and warm, that tastes like cold liquor and melting ice cubes.

Something young, old. A beacon of strength he wants to shield with his own body, take in his arms and protect from the world. And be protected in turn. 

Impossible. Beautiful.

_His._

He holds on to that last thought, clings to it like a drowning man - and he is, drowning that is, because amidst such joy and sorrow and despair and longing, how could he breathe?

( _Breathe, Anthony, my darling, your demons cannot chase you hear, breathe with me!)_

It is so tempting to stop, at times. When he feels to much, which is all the time except when he allows himself to slip in the apathy of the early days. 

He sinks to the floor, lets his head fall back.

He cannot stop though. He cannot force himself to be satisfied now that he knows he is bereft. 

He only wishes it weren’t so painful. And it seems so pointless.

The blue is the wrong color.

_What else have you got?_ A voice in his mind says. It is both mocking, and sad. 

And not wrong at all.

If this isn’t the way, then he has no options left.

But the blue is the wrong color…

But if he continues…. if he _succeeds…_

Creating Winter in a box. This world will be whole again. The Void will be gone. 

The wind promised as much. 

The boy stands up again, and resumes his task. 


	6. Royalty, and utter disrespect

The ceilings are ridiculously tall. The walls are ridiculously golden. The King has color coordinated his eyepatch and his vambraces, and it looks ridiculous.

Tony may be feeling a little aggressive here. 

But standing in front of Asgard’s throne, he cannot help it here. The King is sitting as regal as can be, a golden phallic symbol in his right hand, and the Queen is standing to his right. They look like what they are: distinguished royals. 

They do not look like grieving parents. Or even worried ones.

And that’s why Tony is so angry.

“Anthony Stark,” Odin greets. “Welcome to Asgard.”

Tony just stares. The King stares back. It is a thrilling three-eye fight with utter contempt on one side and millenias of experience dealing with insubordination. 

A queenly elbow shoved in the King’s side makes Odin break first.

Tony may just like her a little more than the King. It isn't saying much, though.

“My son sent you here,” the King continues, voice grave.

“Loki did, yeah,” Tony bites back, willfully misunderstanding. 

Odin doesn’t react to the provocation. He continues as formal as ever. “Mortals are not allowed in Asgard.”

“Yet here I am,” the human answers, raising his arms with a humorless smile. “Take it up with Peeping Tom down at the disco bridge.”

“There has indeed been many acts of treason in recent years.” The King purses his lips at that, and Tony has absolutely no pity for him. In fact, he decides he may just like Heimdall a little more for causing that expression. “It seems my people are more than willing to follow my son.”

“Or maybe they are just tired of obeying a bag of dicks.”

“Take care of how you speak!” Odin snaps.

“Oh, I am,” Tony scoffs, before grinning. “That’s the censored, PG-13 version of what I have to say to you.”

“You despise me easily, despite this being our first meeting.”

Tony shrugs. “I’ve managed to get a fair idea of what kind of person you are.”

The King’s expression grows more somber, if that were at all possible. “Loki is not a reliable informant,” he says in a deep voice.

“Maybe, but Thor isn’t too happy with you either these days, so sources concur.”

“My son is entitled to his own opinions or sentiments on the matter, but even he recognizes the wisdom in my decision.”

“Oh, wisdom, is that what we are calling it now? Cause I have a few suggestions if you need any.” The Queen’s lip twitches, probably in an attempt to smother a smile. Normally, Tony would be more than happy to make someone on the opposing side laugh, it usually means he is winning. Now though, it just makes him angry - well, angrier. “What’s so funny?”

She ducks her head as if to look away in embarrassment, but her eyes quickly meet his again. “Peace, Anthony Stark,” she says, tone as conciliatory as anything. “It merely fills me with joy that my son has such a strong defender.”

She looks sincere, probably is in fact, but that really isn't all that helpful. "Yeah, well _someone_ has to.”

Sure enough, the Queen’s face falls, hurt visible in her eyes. Tony is torn: he isn’t inclined to think well of her right now ; as far as he’s concerned, inaction is the same as condemnation.

But Loki would hate to see his mother unhappy. For any reason.

The King stands in outrage. Tony has clear feelings about _that_. They are very good feelings.

“Do not…” he starts, ready to howl at the inventor, when Frigga puts a hand on his arm. 

“Husband,” she says quietly, her face stoic. “Lord Stark is not wrong.”

Odin abates reluctantly, but doesn’t stop glaring at Tony. “Loki attacked your planet,” he accuses once more.

“I know, I was there.”

“He threw you out of a tower.”

“I was there for that too. Funny how life works.”

“Yet you defend him,” the King presses. “You chose to bind yourself to him.”

Tony pauses. “You know, I was about to object to that last one, but then I realized that I would marry him if he asked. Probably will do it myself once I get him back. Tony Stark, popping the question. Who would have thought? Not me, but then again, Loki always says that for someone of genius intellect, I don’t think it very much. He means it as an endearment though, so it’s cool. So yeah, you’re right. And not invited to the wedding.”

“What has he done to earn such devotion?” Odin asks, half in accusation and half in genuine curiosity, both of which are pretty damn shitty when coming from someone’s father. “Centuries as a Prince of Asgard, yet none of the attachments garnered in the span of months in Midgard.”

“Look, you obviously don’t see it, but Loki is actually a very lovable guy for someone of discerning taste.”

“Do not dare presume about my feelings for my son!” This time, the growl makes Tony recoil, though not in fear. No, it’s because there is something much more raw about it. Pain added to the rage, and for a moment Tony heard Loki in that voice. “You are dear to him, so I tolerate your disrespect, but I will not stand for insults!”

“Oh, so kidnapping Loki is fine with you, but questioning you for letting it happen is a step too far?” Tony sneers. “Fascinating logic. Care to explain?”

The King deflates, suddenly looking much older, much more tired. When he speaks, he does so slowly, as if each word required the greatest of efforts. “Loki is a… special case.”

Tony isn’t moved. “Funny, I thought he was your son.”

“Silence!” And just like that, the angry superiority complex is back. “He is born of Laufey, who wished to claim him back. He has committed a grievous crime against Jotunheim, for which he has not be punished…”

“Well, he has been banished to Midgard for about twenty times longer than Thor has,” Tony points out. “That’s gotta count for something.”

“Thor was reckless. Thor was cruel,” the King agrees, face severe. “But Thor’s attack did not wield nearly the same destruction Loki’s did. And his banishment would have lasted longer, had he not been nearly _killed_ by his brother.”

Tony grits his teeth. There is a point there, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Unlike Loki, he doesn’t know how to agree and succeed in the end. All he can do is camp his position. “So this is all about punishing him for that.”

“This is about justice! This is about a King of a foreign Realm demanding that the perpetrator of a terrible crime against his people be given to him for justice!”

“He didn’t demand anything! He kidnapped him!”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because if Thor had had any forewarning, he wouldn’t have let it happen.” He glares. “Unlike you.”

He looks at the Queen for that last part, because it applies to her just as much. To her credit, she seems to know it : she has long abandoned her calm facade from when he first entered. Though she still has the restraint that comes from her position, Tony can clearly see the guilt and grief that move her.

He may be a bastard for it, but he is relieved to see them. It makes him like her more. 

On the other hand, the King’s stance grows more rigid still, his expression more stubborn, but there is a gleam of _something_ in his eyes that goes against the strong certainty laced in his words.“Loki is Laufey’s son. There was little I could do.”

And that is when Tony loses it. 

“Bullshit!” He screams, actually screams, and the sound resonates in the throne room, bouncing off the walls even as he keeps on speaking. “You take him as your son, you own up to it! You treat him like it! You don’t just go “Yelp, he’s actually Smurfator’s son” as soon as it is more convenient! He’s your son! You should have protected him! Both of you!”

And somewhere along the line, his anger has been replaced by something else, because next thing he knows it’s a sob that threatens to escape him, and it is all he can do to keep it in. 

In all the time Loki has been gone, he hasn’t cried once. He had gone straight from numbness to single-minded determination, and although all he could think about was Loki, he hadn’t let himself think of what happened. 

Loki had been attacked. Loki had been harmed. 

And Tony fucking Stark, with all his suits and all his technology, couldn’t do a damn thing to save him.

He hadn’t even fucking _been there._

The thought is nearly enough to bring him to his knees.

“ _I_ should have protected him,” he says, and he’s not speaking to the King anymore.

He doesn’t look at the two on the throne. He can’t look at anyone right now.

“Loki is a man grown,” Odin says quietly. “He must answer for his actions.”

Tony closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, swallows what may be a moan, may be a scream. The King may be right, he doesn’t care anymore. 

He is so, _so_ close, and he just doesn’t want to fight anymore.

He wants Loki.

He wants to apologize for letting this happen.

He wants…. He wants everything.

“He’s mine,” he whispers brokenly, not caring if Odin All-Dicks hears him. 

There is no answer, and he adds nothing more.

He really has nothing else to say.

“On your head, so be it.”

He looks up sharply. The King looks at him, solemn and composed, as if neither of them had had an emotional outburst moments ago. The Queen just looks relieved.

Tony, on his part, can’t quite manage hopeful.

“The Bifrost shall bring you to Jotunheim, so that you may find what you seek,” Odin continues, and yeah, any other day Tony would have started a rant over calling Loki a “what”, but right at this moment he cannot bring himself to.

He cannot bring himself to do anything more than listen in dumb shock, because it sounds like the King may actually be helping him, when moments before he was all politics and assholiness, and when the hell did he change his mind?!

Not that Tony is going to say anything, but still.

“The Bifrost shines bright, its light visible all the way from the depths of Laufey’s palace,” Odin continues, tone turning warning. “You will have no claim to discretion, no possibility for subterfuge.

“Look, anyone who has seen my armor will tell you I don’t do discretion,” Tony mumbles and rambles. Loki and Pepper agree he does that as a defense mechanism, when he is overwhelmed. That explanation seems much more likely to him now than it did before. “Which is just as good, really, because I’m hopeless at it, unlike Loki, and….You’re letting me go?” he finishes dumbly. “To Jotunheim?”

“You are no citizen of Asgard,” the King states casually, as if the whole thing was so obvious it was barely worth mentioning. He sounds like Loki, really. Tony isn’t sure how he feels about it. “I cannot order you not to go, nor do I take responsibility for what happens to you there.”

Of course, things aren’t that clear cut. Odin may not have the legal authority to stop him, but that doesn’t mean he can’t, to say nothing of actually helping him. There is more to all of this.

Tony doesn’t care one bit what it might be.

He is back in business mode.

“Good. I’ll be off then,” he says, his faceplate snapping back in place. “Thanks, I guess. and goodbye to you” he adds, looking only at the Queen. 

He really, really wants to snub Odin still, but he can’t risk the King taking offense and withdrawing his help. He isn’t sure anymore if it is something he would actually do, but Tony cannot risk it. 

So he looks at the King one last time, and the King looks back. 

And nods. 

Tony clenches his jaw, 

His repulsors are still broken, otherwise he would have flown right out of there. 

Instead, he basically runs out, not caring how ridiculous he looks in his armor, which was definitely not made for this sort of activity. 

It doesn’t matter though, because he makes up for it by sheer stubbornness alone. In a matter of minutes, he is already outside the palace, the rainbow bridge looking both very far away and just within his reach. 

“Wait, man of Iron, and heed my words!”

Tony will not wait, and will not heed any words. Tony is going to get Loki, and is done with talking.

“Anthony Stark, wait!”

Tony continues, determined to ignore the guy. He doesn’t even look back. 

He wonders if the Asgardian is following him. That would explain why the voice doesn’t seem to get any further away.

“Fool who runs, and ignores help freely given!”

And oh, that does it! Can’t the guy take a hint?

Tony turns to glare at the asshole -

And comes face to face with a haughty looking corvid.

What?

“Finally,” the raven huffs, flying to the side to settle on a low branch. “You are as stubborn as your lover.”

Tony blinks. “You know Loki?” he asks dumbly, because he is talking to a bird, and he although he is pretty sure he saw something like that from that mythology book that one time, it is still not something he’d thought he’d see while sober.

“Do you have any other lover?” the bird asks. Sassy bird. 

“Shove it, goth Zazu,” Tony snaps, “I’ve got places to be, things to do, and talking to you in Asgard is not on the list. You wanted to tell me something? Tell it, and drop the sass.”

“Like the lover,” the raven grumbles, looking positively disgruntled. “So very rude…” It ruffles its feathers - and there is a pun there which Tony doesn’t feel like making - and announces, “You seek to rescue your love. You do not know what you save him from.”

“Last I heard, it was from a giant blue dude.”

“True, and false. He is not your greatest problem.” It flaps its wings. “The greatest threat will always be Loki.”

Tony stills. “What do you mean?”

“He does not remember you. He will fight you if you try to take him away.”

His blood turns cold. “He what...?”

He doesn’t know what he thought was keeping Loki. Chains maybe, or a magic cell, or in his darkest moments, something as gruesome as the myth he read once and then had to put away, never to look at it again.

He hadn’t thought of a Loki without his mind. The thought is more horrifying than anything he has ever imagined.

“His memories have been taken by the Ice King,” the bird says gravely. “To best keep him in the land of his birth, for it needs him to thrive.”

“He never mentioned anything about that,” he says numbly. Loki is an arrogant bastard. If he was somehow the space Jesus of an alien planet, surely he would have informed Tony of that?

Then again, if it has anything to do with Jotunheim, then he has a fair idea at what was holding him back. It makes his heart break.

“He felt ashamed,” it says simply, and Tony’s throat tightens at the confirmation. “The boy he is now never knew anything else but blue skin and red eyes. And so, he is becoming what he was always meant to be. The shaman. The one who speaks to Jotunheim.” The bird cocks its head. “What need for a mortal then?”

Tony closes his eyes, because suddenly the sights of _anything_ has become too much, to say nothing of that damn raven. “Loki never needed me.”

“Your lover is the liar. Not you.”

Well in that case, Loki really should have picked someone better to rely on.

He still cannot bring himself to look at the stupid buzzard, so instead he keeps his eyes on the ground, and tries not to feel absolutely useless. 

He fails, of course. He deserves to.

“There is still hope, Anthony Stark,” the raven croaks out in what is probably intended to be a reassuring manner. “He looks for you.”

Tony knows better than to accept good news now. “But?”

“He looks in the wrong place.”

“Shit.” He looks up. “How is that possible?”

“He is a greater mage than the Ice King, and so through his own power he fractures the wall around his memory. But through his own power he creates Winter in a blue stone, and so he becomes lost in the call of his blood.”

Tony blinks. “Huh?”

The bird actually looks irritated. “When he tries to create the Casket, he catches wisps of you. So he keeps on attempting to create it. And the closer he comes to succeeding, the more he drowns in the ice magic. The more his ties to Jotunheim are solidified. The less likely he is to come to you.”

“So? I’ll just show up, and he’ll see me, and he’ll stop.” And he’ll come home.

He clings to that thought, even as he doesn’t truly believe it.

It shakes his head, and his beady eyes look almost pitying. “Foolish, foolish man. He is Loki still.”

“And?” Tony asks defensively. 

Beady eyes look straight at him. “When has Loki ever been good at receiving what he truly wants?”

Tony has no answer. The bird has nothing more to say.

It flies away, and Tony takes the time to watch it disappear in the blue sky before hurrying to the bridge once more.

 

*

 

“You let him leave?” Frigga asks in the quiet of the throne room.

Odin sighs“I would have thought you content with that decision, wife.”

“I am,” she says blandly, “though I am furious that you would not let me to go with him.”

“You know I cannot.”

The words are spoken barely above a whisper, filled with regret and apology.

It does the Queen little good. 

“You gave him access to Jotunheim. In one deed, you threaten to go against every decision you have made these past weeks.” She stands tall, voice barely shaking. “It is all I have wanted, but now that I have it, I fear your intent.”

“You used to trust me,” the King comments. 

“I used to believe nothing would shatter this family. How times have changed.” She sounds like her chosen son when she speaks that way. “Hours before you spoke of politics -”

“And politics still apply. And my vow to protect the realms.” The King interrupts gently, but firmly. “By many accounts, letting Loki face the justice of Jotunheim saves the peace within Yggdrasil. Punishment given by the wronged party, punishment not even a Prince of Asgard can escape.”

The Queen shakes her head. “But that isn’t all. Otherwise, you would not have changed your mind.”

At that, the King hesitates. The pause in his words are just the reflection of a doubt that has its roots deep within him. “As he is… Loki will be a prince of the land. No memories of the past, no cause for hurt… Would it have been kinder to leave him to that fate? To start anew, what so many long for... but with memories forcefully taken...” The weight of the world seems to fall upon the old King’s shoulders, as he slowly lets himself fall upon his golden throne once more. Gungnir is loose in his grip, and his shoulders sag as he speaks. “I struggle, wife. I always have with our second son.”

“Is he your son once more?” the Queen asks, not too kindly. “Have Stark’s words succeeded in making you see what mine could not?”

“Frigga..” the King pleads. It is all he can do.

The Queen’s ire doesn’t abate, it is far too long lasting for that, but she is still capable of compassion, even in anger. She sits on the large armrests, placing a hand against his back. He leans in to it. “Our son deserves to choose, husband. He deserves to master his fate. We chose for him once, and our choice tore him apart.”

“I do learn, wife,” he answers almost gruffly. “No matter how stubborn you may think me. I gave way to the mortal, did I not?”

“You could have offered him more aid. Why didn’t you?”

“What can I give him that would help him truly? Loki will want nothing from Asgard, nothing… nothing from me.” It is a bitter admission, but one he refuses to shy away from. “What Loki wants, what might help him, only Stark can give. I can grant no greater power than what that mortal already possesses. What drives him so plainly and so fiercely.”

“He does love fiercely,” Frigga says, a sad smile on her lips. “I am glad of it, and yet… If Stark should fail in saving him.. If he succeeds, and dies as all mortals do...” She sighs. “Such heartbreak awaits both of them.”

Thor too has tied himself to a mortal, but her eldest has always been more resilient in matters of the heart ; at the very least, he has been in recent years. He will grieve, but he will endure.

Loki though… Loki rests all that he is on those that he loves.

And falls so terribly when that support disappears. 

The King hums pensively. “To go within an enemy realm to rescue a Prince… A true test of valor, is it not?”

“Husband?”

“Perhaps… if he succeeds… Mortals can be rewarded with the fruit of Idun,” he continues. “And that man would most certainly deserve a reward.”

Frigga looks at him in shock, before cocking an eyebrow. “Will you favor one son’s mortal over the other?” Her tone is disapproving, but there is a sparkle of humor in her eyes, for she already knows the answer to her questions. “

The King closes his eyes, and sighs. “I suppose I have two apples to spare.”

And despite such sad times, the Queen laughs.

 

*

 

He remembers.

He _remembers._

Awash in blue and ice and cold and _him_ , he remembers.

The walls in his mind break under the power of the winter he creates. And he sees flashes of something wonderful.

And the winter gives it to him. He loves it so.

He is floating, drowning, seeping into blue magic, which coalesces between his hands and fills every part of his mind. He is losing himself in it, and it feels like coming home.

Once, the Winter King had come to him, had tried stepping into his own world of bliss, and the boy had snarled. He had growled, slashed blindly with his claws in order to make him leave, all the while never pulling away 

The King had looked on, expression inscrutable. And then he had left.

The wind had tutted in disapproval. How very rude. The snow had sighed. He is our King.

The boy had chuckled, because although he has come to respect their opinion above anything else, he does not regret his deed.

They are together. They are one. No one should come in between them. Not even the King.

He whispers that to them, with his mind and soul, and they agree. The wind sings. The snow rejoices.

And in the middle, the boy curls around the winter he wields.

Home, and bliss, and fulfillment and memories of _him._

He is never letting anyone take him away from this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APRIL 7th: I know it has been some time since I updated, which makes is awful since this was meant to be a Secret Santa gift. I haven't given up on this, and have already begun writing the next part. It just might take a little longer still, and I am so sorry! Thanks for sticking with me!


	7. In the Palace of Ice and Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! Finally! I'm so sorry it took so long!
> 
> It's not even that long, considering the wait. Still, I hope you all enjoy it! 
> 
> No beta, all mistakes are mine.

The first thing Tony thinks upon landing in Jotunheim is _holy shit, it’s fucking cold!_

Which isn’t surprising, seeing as it is the realm of _Frost Giants_ , but the shock is still enough to make him bend over, and instinctive move to shield himself as much as possible.

His faceplate pulls back up, the heating systems activate, and he really needs to get moving if he doesn’t want his armor to rust or freeze him in place.

It is hard, making his way towards the palace, because if the armor wasn’t meant to be walked down paved streets then it definitely wasn’t meant to be put through deep snow. But he carries on, because Tony has face spies and kings and ravens to get here, so what’s a little bit of cold water going to do to him?

It takes minutes, or hours, most likely not a day because there has been no sunrise, but eventually he makes it.

The palace is… well, it looks broken. Walls that end in sharp cuts, towers that seem to spring from nowhere. Everything is hard stone and ice, and although Tony’s sure that part of it is simply this place’s aesthetic, there is no denying that a war was fought here. And this place is ruins left behind.

For the first time in his life, Tony is beginning to regret having gold on his suit. He doesn’t want to be associated to Asgard in any way.

It’s a little late for a color palette change now though, so he carries on. Around him, he can see shadows moving, big ass shadows that are suspiciously humanoid looking. His sensors pick up an alarming amount of heartbeats, a scientifically fascinating lack of body heat, and all of that adds up to one very alarming fact: 

He is surrounded by a shit load of very real giants.

He has never felt so small. In every sense of the word.

But Tony is Tony, and he doesn’t show fear (especially when his faceplate is still on, that helps.) So he walks with his head held high, straight towards the only figure that is clearly visible.

Tall and blue and sitting on a throne. Three guesses as to who that is.

“You come through the Bifrost, yet are not of Asgard,” Laufey rumbles. His voice is low and rough, and Tony gets a feeling it always sounds like a growl. So different from Loki’s, he cannot help but note.

“No, I’m not. I’m from Ear - Midgard,” he answers. Who knows if these people have heard of “Earth” before, and he isn’t going to risk a communication error this late in the game.

He is not going to doom Loki because he didn’t chose his words correctly. That would be the ultimate insult.

“And what business does a Midgardian have here?” Laufey leans forward - and that is a Loki-move right there, when he wants to intimidate, to push. “Does the All-Father hide behind weaker men now? Or do you wish to speak of the war I have started long ago? I find both options unlikely, and yet can think of no other.”

Really, there is only one answer Tony can give. It is also a question, and the only thing that matters. “Where is Loki?”

As soon as the name leaves his lips, he hears mutters all around him. A few hisses even. Tony ignores them.

“Unlikelier still,” the King muses, leaning back once more. He looks at Tony appraisingly, though who knows what he is looking for behind the full armor gettup. He seems to find it though, and when he speaks again his eyes never leave Tony. “Leave us.” 

The court around him mumbles some more, but complies. A few giants give him one last inquisitory look as they leave, but soon enough he is alone with the King. 

Laufey looks at him for a moment, expression unreadable for reasons far beyond its alien features. “How do you know him?” he asks eventually, tone as neutral as ever.

Tony squares his shoulders. “He’s mine.”

“No, he is not.”

The simplicity of the response is more disconcerting than any long rebuttal. The King sounds so certain, as if it were his call to make. It is maddening. It just might be true. “He isn’t yours.”

“No, not yet.”

“You can’t have him!”

Tony lost whatever tacit battle had been going on as soon as he raised his voice. The situation reminds him far too much of his own arguments with Loki, of how flustered and temperamental Tony would get even as Loki remained stony and aloof. It isn’t that his lover is incapable of emotion, to the contrary, it’s that his god has long learned to hide behind a mask of calm certitude and slight disdain.

“Perhaps not. Perhaps none can. No being of flesh, at the very least.” Laufey leans forward, eyes narrowing dangerously. His next words are spoken much more harshly, like a threat. “But if the realm beneath our feet lays will take him, then I at least will have second claim. My blood and my scars, he is more mine than yours.”

Tony closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “Look, I just used up all my quota of cryptic talk on a creepy raven, can’t you be clearer?”

When in doubt, fall back on irreverence. When has that not worked before?

“What do you know of Loki Laufeyson?”

The non-sequitur would have thrown him off balance if Tony wasn’t totally used to Loki pulling the same move. “I know he hates that name.”

Laufey laughs at that, bitter and cruel. “The Spearbreaker has done good work. To take a child, a shaman born from Ymir’s line, turn it against its home and deathen it to its song. To steal the heart of our Realm as he does it.” He takes in a deep breath, his exhale more a growl than anything else. “He would see us waste away into nothingness.”

“It isn’t Loki’s fault.”

“Who is it that unleashed the Bifrost?”

Tony takes a deep breath. “So, this is revenge?”

“No. It is a trial.”

It is funny, Tony thinks bitterly, how often trials are imposed on those who never asked. And yet they do it anyway.

 _Through dangers untold, I have made my way here,_ said a movie once. He had watched it with Loki, and his love had enjoyed it so very much. So had Tony, but where the human saw only a young girl and a quest, the god saw tales of childhood lost and love despite envy. 

“How is _this_ a trial?” Tony asks, trying so very hard not to glare.

If he knows the rules, then he knows how Loki will triumph.

And if Loki cannot triumph, then Tony will know how to help him cheat. 

Laufey draws himself high. “I owe you no answers, mortal man.”

“Oh buddy, you owe me way more than that,” the human replied. “You took my stuff.”

“He isn’t yours.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He is _my_ _son_.” 

“No, he is not.”

As far as Tony is concerned, Loki has no father. He came into being one glorious day, fully grown and fully Loki. What happened before was just a prelude to a story that begins with an offered drink. 

It’s a much happier story than the one with parents in it. 

“Ah, perhaps not.” The King says finally. For a moment, he sounds so old and so sad, and Tony almost pities him.

Almost. 

“But he should have been,” Laufey continues, drawing his head high. “Still could be.”

Tony doesn’t say anything. He knows the King isn’t finished. 

“Jotunheim’s soul, he could have been. Its death he was instead. A perversion. And who’s fault is that?” Laufey’s lips curl. “Shall we punish a child for being corrupted? If its nature is still true, can he not be saved? _This_ is the trial.”

“No memories. No past. And thus he who was Loki will reveal himself. We will see his soul, and judge it accordingly. And either we will welcome our shaman, or we will kill the kinslayer.”

Laufey smiles, full of satisfaction and pride. 

“And in the short time he has been here, he has begun to recreate our salvation. The _Fimbulvetr._ The Casket of Ancient Winter.” 

His red eyes come to land on Tony, his gaze intense and resolute. “He is not yours. He has proven himself to be ours.”

Tony says nothing. The King’s words dance in his mind, over and over again. He hears them, looks at them through every possible angle and when he is done, there is only one conclusion left.

“That makes no sense.”

He blurted out the words before good sense could stop him. 

“If he doesn’t remember anything… If he can hear Jotunheim, or whatever the fuck shaman do… Then of course he’s going to go along with it! Of course he’s going to listen, because he knows nothing else. It makes no sense, it’s rigged..”

And the brilliant man stops, because he just realized the truth.

His love was cunning, and took after his father in that. Both of them, as it turns out.

“You knew that,” Tony whispers. The words are both awe filled and condemning. 

“He is my son.” The king is unrepentant, and why should he be? “And when I have the chance to have him back, did you think I would not be willing to cheat?”

Tony thinks of all he would do for Loki, all he has done, and finds that he cannot blame him. 

The conversation could have continued, maybe, if it hadn’t been for the shift in the air. A sudden noise, a swell of energy. The ghost of something so alien yet so _familiar_ that it fills Tony’s hear even as it breaks it. 

The energy readings dance before his eyes, tell him everything he already knows, and just like that, the decision is made.

It has been a lovely chat, but he _needs_ to go now.

He doesn’t even say goodbye, doesn’t acknowledge the King at all as his repulsors kick in. 

He has managed to be rude to the rulers of three different planets, Loki will find that so funny.

As soon as he is in the air, he sees the palace in full. Sees the highest tower surrounded by a storm, wind and snow swirling around it. A shield of winter around one room.

One person.

His flight is unstable. His armor damaged. 

But Loki is there, in the middle of this pocket blizzard, and so Tony doesn’t even hesitate before rushing towards it.

There is a raven above his head, much smoother and elegant in his flight. It doesn’t have an armor though, and so it doesn’t follow him when he enters the storm. 

The wind is like a whip, the snow is like stones, and they hit and tear at his suit as he makes his way towards the tower. 

White on his fingers, white in his vision, creeping into his suit and suffocating him. It stabs at his skin like thorns, pulls him away like a thousand hands, but he pushes through.

On and on again, until he finds a wall to cling to. To guide him. Pulls himself up, higher and higher, until his fingers meet a window ledge and he pulls himself up. 

Perched on the windowsill, it takes a moment for his vision to clear. When it does, he stumbles forward, hand reached out. 

Loki is there. Loki is there, in front of him, and he is blue, and he has claws, and Tony doesn’t care, because it is _Loki_ , and -

And he isn’t looking at him. His eyes are still on the glowing blue stone that is making the walls shake. There is something like delight, like _love_ in them, the look he used to give Tony once.

It is comforting and terrifying all at once, so much so that the air leaves his lungs and he is left choking at the sight of it. It is comforting, because it is Loki, and it is _home._ It is terrifying, because that look is not aimed at him.

For the first time since he left the tower, Tony is confronted with the very, very likely possibility that Loki won’t want to follow him home.

“Hey, snowflake,” he says, when he can finally speak. Loki hates that nickname, so he’s going to react, snap at him, right?

But no, he only curls further into himself, eyes half closing in bliss. The blue stone shine brighter, rays shining through Loki’s fingers. The temperature around them drops, snowflakes forming from nothing.

The suit interface goes wild in its readings, displaying temperature curbs and energy patterns that Tony is incapable of interpreting, save for one: the green rises and falls that depict Loki’s magic. Tony measured them once, after badgering Loki for days to get him to agree to it. It didn’t have any true use at the time, really, but it was science, and Loki -

That of all things is what spurs him into action, makes him reach out towards his love despite the suit reading telling him “fuck no!”, despite the cold he can feel seeping through his armor. Frost coats the gold-titanium alloy as his gloved hand come to rest on Loki’s shoulder.

The reaction is immediate.

Tony goes flying backwards, crashing into an ice and stone wall that crumbles around him when he falls onto the ground.

“No!” Loki hisses, voice much lower, much rougher in this form. Or maybe it’s the magic. “No, you shall not take him! You won’t, you won’t!’

It’s hard to get back up. He may have sprained an ankle, and his armor is getting dangerously close to “too damaged to function”. Still he manages, voice coming out as a croak when he speaks. “I’m taking you home, Loke.”

But Loki doesn’t listen, just curls in a protective ball around the stone. “He is here, I know it…” he mumbles. “So close.”

That… That is something. More than he thought he would get.

What had the raven said?

 _He is looking for you, but in the wrong place._

He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, doesn’t want to lose Loki forever because he acted too soon, but he cannot stop the hope swelling in his chest. It is an almost alien feeling after all this time. “Who are you talking about?”

Loki shakes his head. To block Tony out. To clear it. “Ice cubes on the tongue,” he continues franticly. There is madness in his babbles, desperation. It breaks Tony’s heart, even as it soars with joy when he hears the rest. “Brown and golden, red…. He’s right there…”

He needs to be careful, needs to talk him down slowly. But he has something to work with now, something that comes from Loki’s own desire to come home.“I am, Loki. I’m right here.” He speaks slowly, deliberately, like addressing a spooked animal. He raises his arm slowly, palm turned up as an offering. “Just… Just look at me. I’m here, I’m real, and I’m taking you home. Just, just listen, alright?”

Loki calms a little, but barely. He is looking at him now, which is something, but he looks so desperate, so lost. “The snow, the wind. They know,” he adds in whisper, eyes wide as he wills Tony’ to understand, “they sing!”

“And I’m not saying to ignore them! I just…” He swallows, and his voice drops to a murmur. “Just take my hand, and we’ll be out of here. Just put the stone down…”

That was a mistake. The fragile, tentative look on Loki’s face gives way to pure rage. “No!” He snarls, eyes shining bright with a sudden surge of magic. 

It is all Tony has the time to see before he is slammed against the floor, head hitting the ice and stone so hard it rings. And then something heavy lands upon him, and of course it’s Loki.

Loki, with his eyes wide and his hair whipping around his face. His lips parted, most likely in a snarl that Tony cannot hear. Strong legs squeeze at his armor, crushing it slowly, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

 _Well, babe, if that’s what you’re in the mood for,_ he thinks dizzily. It is a stupid thing to say though, so he abstains.

Anyway, with so little air in his lungs, he really doubts he could.

Loki claws as his face, and his faceplate just flies off. The cold and the abuse must have made the junctions weak, which is kind of upsetting all things considered because the damn thing keep falling off no matter how many times Tony tweaks it. 

He’ll never have the chance to fix it again.

He’ll never get a chance, because Loki’s hand is at his throat, claws digging into his skin, and Tony can’t fight back. He won’t. He knows Loki is strong, stronger than Tony will ever be, but still he cannot bear the thought of hitting him, of bruising blue flesh. Of giving him anything other than love, even as Loki destroys him with blind rage.

“I won’t let you take it,” his love growls. His voice seems so very distant under the roar of blood in Tony’s ears. “I won’t let you take him, I won’t, I won’t I _won’t_!”

_I’m here, Lokes. It took me a while, but I’m here._

But he’ll never get to speak those words, will never get to say anything again. His vision is dimming, there is blood trailing down his neck from where Loki’s claws cut into him.

He is a dying man.

Isn’t he entitled to a dying wish?

There is only one thing he wants, only one thing he can think about. It is what moves his arms even when he strength fails him, what keep him breathing long enough to get it.

It takes all that he has to put his hand on the back of Loki’s neck, and even more than that to pull him close.

But when those lips touch his, oh, _what bliss!_

It is nothing but a peck, a touch of lip against lip, and even that touch burns. Cold seeps into his flesh, blackens his skin. He’ll probably look goth as fuck when Loki pulls away, all pale skin and dark lips. 

He doesn’t care though. This is all that he gets, and it is as perfect as it will ever get. And if it is Tony’s dying wish, then it is also his last gift to Loki.

A kiss goodbye.

“A...Anthony?

A kiss to wake a slumbering Prince. 

“Oh, Anthony, I… Oh Norns!” Loki babbles above him.

Loki should never babble, Loki should always be smooth and confident, but if it means that Tony gets to hear his voice one more time, then he will take it gladly.

He smiles, or tries to, but it hurts when flesh is frozen and death still near. But his vision is filled with red that fades to green, and the sight makes his heart burst with so much joy it eclipses any pain that might have been.

Loki. _Loki._

“Oh my love, I am so sorry! I will save you, this I vow! I will save you!”

_Awe, come on, that’s my job!_

But Tony isn’t going to protest when strong arms wrap around him, lift him against a hard chest that smells of all that he has ever loved. When a voice fills his ears, telling him words he doesn’t understand but are the sweetest lullaby he could hope for.

The world turns dark around him, and in Loki’s arms, he falls. 

 

*****

 

The prince of Asgard sits alone in a living room, in a house, in the English countryside.

The wisest course of action might have been to return to Asgard, as his recent actions have not endeared him to SHIELD any. Thor does not care though: he is not their vassal, and he will not bow to their wants when they have proven to be most cruel.

So he stays in England, in Midgard, for that is how he can be closest to his brother. That is how he can bear the wait, the uncertainty, as another does the duty Thor himself should have done. His own love comforts him as best as she is able, as Thor will let her, and that makes inaction bearable.

He is pulled out of his thoughts by a tapping against the glass.

He looks up, and nearly bursts with joy.

The raven looks at him from behind the glass, its black beady eye somehow bearing a smile.

It is all he needs to know. 

He settles back in his chair, closes his eyes in contentment and relief.

He will leave soon, will rush back towards his brother, take him in his arms and weep from relief. He will apologize, and he will love, and pray that Loki will allow both.

Soon. Not now.

For now, there is only one man Loki will want, and Thor would never think of intruding.

 

*****

 

The raven comes to perch on the King’s shoulder, whispers a few words and flies away.

When the King visibly sags in relief, the Queen smiles.

“Fortunate tidings, then?”

“It appears we both owe a mortal an invaluable debt,” is the King’s reply. “Or at the very least, I do.”

“For saving my child, that man can demand my heart’s blood that I would give it gladly,” the Queen responds. “Though I doubt it will come to that.”

“Most likely not.”

“An apple, on the other hand…”

Odin groans. “One matter at the time, wife.”

“Is it such a horrible thing to consider? That a man so deserving would be granted our lifespan?”

“It is not granting the apple that I dread,” the King answers gruffly. “It is the comments I shall receive from our son that I shudder to think of.”

And the Queen laughs and laughs.

 

*****

 

The Ice King stands in the desolate room. 

The furniture is broken, the mirrors have shattered. It is all ruin.

So much has been lost in but a moment. Jotunheim’s heart must ache as surely as his own, he thinks. 

He closes his eyes, ready to drown his sorrow in the one of an entire Realm.

Only, instead of weeping winds and moaning snow, he hears something very different.

A song, new but familiar, youthful yet ancient. 

His eyes snap open, and rushes forward. He digs through the rubble, throws away broken wood and tattered blankets, digs and digs until he sees it.

There, on the ground, a small stone with a snowflake carved upon it. 

A small stone, but growing, and glowing a familiar blue hue made of a thousand of wisps of winter. 

Gingerly, he brushes his hand against it, and Jotunheim sings.

The King smiles.

 

*****

 

The first thing Tony hears is very loud beeping.

The first thing he smells is sterilizing products.

The first thing he sees is Loki’s face inches from his own.

“Have you been that way the whole time?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Cause that isn’t nearly as romantic as the books made you believe.”

Not that it isn’t a pleasant sight to wake up to. Not that it isn’t pleasant to wake up at all. He hadn’t been sure if what he last heard before passing out had been a dream or not.

Loki chuckles, weakly but happily, leaning back just enough so that Tony can get a better view of him. “I apologize, beloved,” he murmurs, wiping his eyes with his palm. “I heard you stir and I… Well, I was both relieved and very frightened.”

“Scared that I would kick you off the bed?”

“Scared that it was only my own wishful thinking. But a dream,” Loki corrects. His expression crumbles. “I dreamt of you very often, you see, even when I…”

“Hey, hey,” Tony murmurs, reaching out with a weak arm to take Loki’s hand. He cannot reach any further, but his grip around those long fingers is strong. “No crying here. We’re all fine, we’re all safe.”

Loki doesn’t listen, because he never does. He shakes his head, a few stray tears escaping the corner of his eyes - which, for Loki, basically equates to loud bawling. “I forgot you, Anthony. How could I ever? And you came, and I attacked you!” He lets himself fall on top of Tony, clutching his T shirt and weeping into the crook of his neck. “Oh, you must believe I would never have done such a thing voluntarily! You must…”

“Sssh, Lokes. Snowflake. It’s alright,” Tony whispers, rubbing his back as he lets him cry. “It was all magic, and magic sucks if it isn’t yours. That’s all there is to it. It’s the bitch magic.”

Loki chuckles weakly. “You speak nonsense even now. I don’t know if it’s a sign of comfort or anxiety on your part.”

Tony swallowed. “I’m just…” And crap, he’s going to cry too.

Loki is still soaking his T-shirt though, so what the hell. They’ll both be emotional messes. Pepper will be so proud.

“I’m very glad I have you back,” he says, voice growing thicker with each world. “It was hell, Lokes, and you know I don’t even believe in that stuff. But you weren’t there, and I… I just wasn’t _living_ without you.” He clings to Loki tighter. “I missed you, Loki, I missed you so much that I couldn’t…”

“I missed you as well,” Loki cuts him off gently. He raises his head, lifts his hand to cup Tony’s cheek. “Even when I could not remember you, I missed you,” he added urgently. “You are a part of me, Anthony. Deeply ingrained, so very crucial. I could not suffer you being taken away more than I could suffer the removal of my own heart.”

Tony reaches out, tears blurring his vision. He smiles. “You’re home.”

“I am,” Loki whispers. “I am.”

The kiss he gives Tony is gentle. It’s perfect. It’s an anchor into this moment, where Loki is here, Loki is with him, and he better get used to that because Tony is never letting him go ever again.

His god pulls away, barely. Tony wants to cry because the kiss didn’t last forever.

 _“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer,”_ Loki whispers against his lips.

Tony chuckles. “It’s spring, you idiot.”

 


End file.
